


There's a Word For That

by plumcat



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fellas is it gay to obsess over your athletic rival's perfect shoulders?, Hogwarts AU, Humor, I did an unholy amount of Quidditch research for this, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumcat/pseuds/plumcat
Summary: Patton Sagedhi was always nice. Even when he was being mean, he was nice. It was one of his most irritating traits, in Roman’s expert opinion as Patton’s arch-rival and primary studier of said traits, clocking in right below his irritatingly perfect smile and right ahead of his irritatingly perfect shoulders.(AKA: Patton has an agenda. Virgil has a headache. Roman has no emotional awareness. A very silly, self-indulgent Hogwarts!AU.)
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 34
Kudos: 67





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> This idea grabbed me by the leg and would NOT let go so I just had to get it out of my system. I thought it would be fun to write some rivals!Royality, since that's a dynamic I hardly ever see them with, and I was right! There's so much untapped flirty banter potential here, y'all. You're missing out.

“Come on,” Roman hissed, craning his neck to peer over the sea of heads and black-coated backs that filled the Great Hall. “Turn around, turn around, turn around—”

“Who are you looking at, dear?” Janus asked, without so much as an upward glance. He remained focused on his task of slathering a piece of toast with objectively too much butter, legs kicked out across the bench beside him. His tendency to take up more space than was available had forced a cluster of third years to pack together, almost on each other’s laps, in order to avoid being shoved off the end of the table.

“Who else would he be looking at?” Virgil sounded, as always, deeply tired.

Roman ignored them both, occupied as he was by his attempts to hone his brain waves into a form of telepathic communication. 

Janus traced Roman’s gaze with the pointed end of his knife and proffered up a dramatic eye roll once the blade stilled, hovering above the blot that was the target's back. “Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.”

Virgil squinted at him. “Since when do Purebloods read Shakespeare?”

“True poetry transcends all worldly boundaries,” said Janus, loftily.

“That was literally the most pretentious thing you’ve ever said.”

The resulting offended scoff was drowned out by the ringing in Roman’s chest as, at last, his angry subliminal message pulled through, and Patton Sadeghi swiveled around in his seat.

A sniffling first-year had shuffled up behind him, presumably seeking counsel, her arms wrapped around her body and fingers tightened into the fabric of her robes. He leaned down and flashed the girl that infuriating thousand-watt smile of his, reaching out a broad hand to ruffle her hair. She melted on the spot. Typical.

Roman watched Sadeghi’s mouth form a series of inaudible words that coaxed the kid’s shoulders down from where they had been tightened up to her ears, culminating in a cheerful thumbs-up and a phrase which Roman recognized the motions of by sight alone: “You got this, kiddo!” She darted forward to give him a shy hug, and scurried back to the other side of the Hufflepuff table.

Emotional support thus provided, the older boy started to turn back to his friends, but on the way, his gaze snagged on Roman’s across the room. He beamed and waved. Roman grinned winningly back and held his hand up by his forehead in a two-fingered salute. 

As soon as Sadeghi looked away, the smile slid off Roman’s face, a withering scowl rising to take its place.

“What a wanker,” Roman huffed, slumping back down into his seat with his chin in his hand. He could still see about a third of Sadeghi’s back, and he glared resolutely at it. The always-rumpled mess of dark curls caught the sunlight filtering in through the big windows as Sadeghi tipped his head back with laughter at some apparently hilarious joke of Remy’s. 

“You’re full of it, Princey,” Virgil informed him through a huge mouthful of scrambled egg. His Gryffindor tie, hanging loose around his neck, had long stopped attracting stares, but the unholy mountain of food on his breakfast plate had not. Five and a half years of friendship, and Roman still couldn’t watch him eat without feeling vaguely sick. He gazed in unmitigated horror as Virgil poured a solid half cup of syrup over his black pudding. “Pat’s, like, the nicest fucking person alive.”

“Exactly,” Roman said. “It’s inhuman. He’s got to have some sort of agenda.”

“He is suspiciously perfect,” Janus conceded, tapping a thoughtful finger against his chin. “Head Boy? Quidditch captain? Nine OWLs?”

“Incredible shoulders?” Roman sighed, and then added, “Or so I’ve heard people say.”

Janus raised an eyebrow at him. “You, too, could have incredible shoulders if you spent more time with the weights and less time obsessively tracking the Hufflepuff team’s stats.”

“It’s research,” Roman snapped, “For the good of our House. How could they go from bottom of the league to contenders for the Cup in less than a year, without some sort of— of— Untoward scheming?”

“Yeah, and maybe Patton is manipulating people into adoring him by abusing the power of kindness and friendship,” said Janus dryly.

Roman’s face lit up. “You know, you could be right.”

Virgil stared incredulously at him. “Not everybody has a hidden agenda.” Both Janus and Roman stared back, wearing twin expressions of confusion. Virgil sighed. “Fucking Slytherins,” he said morosely, more to the saltshaker by his left elbow than anybody present.

“Virge,” said Janus, tugging at his sleeve. He was smirking something awful. “You be Patton.” He loosened his tie and ran a hand through his shoulder-length sandy hair so that it flopped into his eyes before plopping his head in his hand, mirroring Roman, who hastily changed positions.

Virgil was grinning now, too. “Wait, wait, let me get into character.” He adjusted his collar so that it lay flat for once, and straightened his posture. “Aw, hey Roman,” he said, in a terrible, nasal approximation of Sadeghi’s chipper voice. It sounded like that freaky singing frog in the Muggle films Remus liked. “How goes it?” He paused. “Kiddo?”

“Ohhhh, awful,” Janus flat-out moaned, “I need you to pay attention to me twenty-four seven or else I die.”

“I’m just so busy passing all my classes,” Virgil chirped. The merry smile on his face was truly disconcerting. “Not that you’d know what that’s like.” Roman threw a napkin at him. “But don’t worry, I’ll always make time to argue with you.”

“I loathe you and your incredible shoulders.”

“No, babe, I loathe your shoulders.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Roman announced over the sound of Virgil’s cackling. He shoved his plate away from him and snatched his bag from the ground. “I’m going to Quidditch practice and I’m never speaking to either of you again.”

“I’m also on the team, dumbass,” Janus called after him. 

Roman sulked all the way out the front of the castle and down to the Quidditch pitch. He burst into the locker room, still fuming, and in his distraction, managed to both put his training kit on backwards and forget his gloves. After he had righted the mistakes, he fetched his broom from the shed, stormed onto the field, and kicked off into the sky.

A few loop-de-loops later, he felt a little better. He never could stay properly cross whilst flying. It was a lovely November day, cold but bright, and the wind nipped at his heels as he shot upwards into the watery blue sky and swooped between fat rows of clouds, dangling as if by invisible threads, white and soft as fresh snow.

Thus distanced from the ground and therefore, his terrible, terrible best friends, he settled in for a leisurely lap around the circumference of the pitch. Hogwarts always looked most beautiful from above: The verdant, manicured expanses of lawn, the spindly towers and intricate stonework crawling with ivy, the dense, oblong silhouette of the Great Lake, so dark that it looked almost black, all encased by a thick strip of forest. 

The way the trees crowded together shoulder-to-shoulder had always reminded Roman of a group of people, tufts of fluffy foliage representing the tops of their heads as they bent together, perhaps conspiratorially, perhaps in affection.

Roman dove a little lower and watched as his team traipsed, either alone or in small clumps, into the locker room, before spilling out onto the pitch in a misshapen splotch of green and silver and brown, laughing, gleaming. A rush of affection overtook him, as he alighted on the grass beside them to be met with a chorus of back slaps and hollered “Rooo-man!”s and one solemn nod, courtesy of Logan.

Roman gave him a bewildered wave in return. The kid was one of the strangest people Roman had ever met (what thirteen year old led conversations with “Salutations?”), but he was a scarily good beater, and Remus’ best friend, and so Roman somewhat awkwardly humored his eccentricities.

“Alright, team,” Roman said, tucking his broom in the crook of his elbow so as to clap his hands together, “We have a lot of work to do today, so let’s get right into it. For a warm-up, find a partner, and—”

“What, no speech today?” asked Katrina, the reserve keeper.

“No time for speeches,” Roman told her, and recoiled at the subsequent volley of boos hurtled his way. He rolled his eyes. You make one tearful, drunken soliloquy... “Fine,” he said, “Here’s one. Slytherin hasn’t lost the Cup in three years, and if we break that streak on my first go as Captain, I will personally hex off all your kneecaps.” 

“Cheers, mate,” said Janus.

Once they were all in the air and engaged in their usual starting series of drills, Janus abandoned productive work in favor of loitering by Roman’s shoulder. Logan, used to this, drifted over to form a group of three with Kat and Noah.

“I’m still cross with you,” Roman informed him, lobbing the quaffle across the pitch to Rafaela, who missed it, cursed, and plunged after it.

“You’re not really, are you?” Janus asked, keeping pace with him even as Roman dove headlong into a series of sharp dips and turns in a fruitless effort to escape. “Yeah, we were taking the piss, but that’s just how the three of us are, you know that.”

Roman did know that, but it still inexplicably rankled at him. A good bout of friendly bullying over his hair or his grades was one thing, but when it came to Quidditch— to Sadeghi— it was different. Not that he was about to tell Janus that.

“D’you reckon we should do a practice match today?” he asked instead. “Or some more technical work?”

“Let’s worry about technique after we grind Hufflepuff into the ground,” Janus said. “We need to focus on our plays.”

He was right, as usual. Roman narrowly managed to catch a throw with a particularly brutal backspin, and yelled, “Save those for the keeper, Raf!” as he pitched it back towards her. Turning his attention back to a still-hovering Janus, he added, “Don’t you have something better to be doing right now?”

“I don’t need to bother with Chaser drills,” Janus sniffed. 

“Everybody needs to have a good foundation in all aspects of the game in order to work cohesively as a team—”

“Yadda, yadda.” Janus flapped his hand open and shut like it was the mouth of a puppet. “Can I get out the practice snitch?”

Roman sighed. “Go ahead.”

“Um, Roman?” one of the other chasers yelled. He followed their pointing finger to a group of predominantly yellow splotches on the ground below, led by a familiar pair of broad shoulders and round spectacles that glinted opaquely in the morning light. 

Roman swore, loudly.

“Janus, come with me,” he instructed, and swept into a descent.

He made a (brilliant, graceful) landing a few feet in front of Sadeghi, Janus right behind him. The thump of a third pair of feet against the turf revealed that Logan had taken it upon himself to tag along too, nosy little bugger.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Roman said, crossing his arms.

“Practicing Quidditch, of course,” Sadeghi said innocently, furrowing his brow in mock confusion. “Why do you ask?” He was flanked by a girl with a shaved head that Roman didn’t know the name of, and Remy, who smirked and waggled their black-painted fingernails at Roman. He resisted the urge to flip them off. 

“Fat chance,” Janus spat, lip curled up in disdain. He was officially promoted back up to Roman’s favorite person ever. “This is our practice slot and it always has been.”

“Actually, we have a permit,” Remy drawled. They shook out a square of parchment and thrust it beneath Roman’s nose.

Roman had to lean back to read it. The note detailed the Hufflepuff team’s need for supplementary practice before the upcoming match, and was signed by both Sanders and Hooch. At the bottom there was a short addendum in Remy’s sloppy scrawl. Get fucked, it read.

“You can’t do this,” Roman said. “We have a game next weekend.”

“I’m aware,” said Sadeghi, “It’s against us.”

“And we can do this,” added Remy. “I don’t know if you can read, Roman, but we have very explicit permission.”

“But— but that’s not fair,” Roman spluttered. 

“Oh, I didn’t realize Slytherins cared about fairness,” Sadeghi said mildly. His pleasant smile didn’t move an inch. “Would you like to go to Hooch and let her know? Maybe we can finally correct that little old book-keeping mishap from a couple years ago—”

“That was a perfectly honest victory,” Roman growled, jabbing a finger into the center of Sadeghi’s Keeper breastplate. “You’re just mad that you fucked up such an easy save.”

“I know what a confundus charm feels like,” Sadeghi insisted.

Roman bristled. “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of cheating.”

“Oh, no,” Sadeghi said, eyes wide, “Not you, Roman, I know you’re a good upstanding fellow. I just think it’s important to get the full picture. What do I have to lose?”

The implication sent waves of indignation rolling down Roman’s spine. He gritted his teeth and was preparing to launch into a detailed breakdown of all Sadeghi’s Quidditch failures throughout the years (beginning with the first game they had ever played together, in which Sadeghi got a Bludger to the shoulder and cried), when he was cut off by Logan, of all people.

“Why don’t we just share the pitch?” he asked. Roman and Janus both swung around to glare at him, but he continued to blink up at Sadeghi through the lenses of his comically bulky sports goggles, unbothered.

Sadeghi brightened. “Now that is a wonderful idea! What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Logan,” said Logan, the traitor.

“Well, thank you Logan! Perhaps we can even do a itsy-bitsy scrimmage, get the blood pumping. How’s that sound?”

“I think it sounds great.” Logan even proffered a rare, small smile.

Roman knew he was gaping like a loser, but he couldn’t stop himself. Sadeghi reached over and placed one gentle finger beneath Roman’s chin, pushing his jaw shut. “I’m so glad we could come to a compromise.”

“I don’t like you,” said Roman flatly.

Sadeghi leaned over and patted his shoulder. “Aw, Roman, I know. But sometimes, we’ve gotta do the mature thing and cooperate with people that we don’t like. It’s what makes the world go round.” He smiled, all teeth. “Come on, darlings.”

With that, he shot straight into the air, zipping so close to Roman that the ensuing wind ruffled his hair, followed by the rest of the Hufflepuff team. 

“Alright, maybe you have a point about him,” Janus said, staring after the trail of black and yellow now tracing perfect figure-eights through the sky. “What a prick.”

Roman liked Quidditch only slightly more than being right, so he put that admission on hold to address at a later date, and whirled on Logan. “Pardon my language, mate, but what the fuck was that about?”

“It was a good idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Roman said, “Because you made me look like an idiot in front of Patton bloody Sadeghi.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t have to try very hard.”

Roman shut his eyes and took several deep breaths and reminded himself that it would be bad form to hex a third year, who also happened to be one of his better beaters. “And now we have to share the pitch.”

“Why wouldn't it be good for us to play against them prior to the match?” Logan pushed his goggles farther up his nose. “We can study their strategies.”

“Or they can study ours,” Janus pointed out. 

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think that we can’t outplan a bunch of Hufflepuffs?”

Roman, who was currently getting out-planned by a sprite with terrible eyewear, wasn’t at all sure of that. Now wasn’t the time to get insecure, though, because the rest of the team, drawn in by the sweet scent of a petty argument, had drifted over and regrouped on the pitch around them.

“Everybody, say thank you to Logan,” Roman said peevishly, “We are now sharing the pitch with the Hufflepuffs.”

They all groaned.

Roman felt a little guilty about the host of dirty glares now being directed at their youngest starting player, but Logan didn’t seem to notice or care. It was an enviable skill. With some difficulty, Roman directed the team’s attention back onto him, and got them started on their next drill, skipping the rest of the warm-up since they had already wasted more than enough time. Roman was a damn good captain, and they were a damn good team, and the high bells of Sadeghi’s laughter on the other side of the field was not going to distract him from that.

As the morning wore on, Roman tried to ignore the Hufflepuffs and proceed with practice as normal. This was made difficult by the fact that the others were good— Properly good— a fact that he knew wasn’t lost on the rest of the line-up, since they looked up as one every time Sadeghi yelled, “Brilliant!” or a high-speed throw whizzed through the brisk air. 

Roman was seriously beginning to doubt Logan’s so-called wisdom. If this incident lessened morale to the point of carelessness, “bad form” be damned, he was going to throw the kid off the astronomy tower. Or maybe himself.

After his attempt to keep one eye on the plays the Badgers were practising and one eye on the relay drill at hand earned him a quaffle to the face, Roman decided that he had had enough. With a sharp, two-fingered whistle, he brought the Slytherins to a halt.

Motioning for them to stay where they were, he shot over towards where Sadeghi was lingering near the goalposts, watching his own team play and scribbling notes in a small yellow notebook. He caught sight of Roman approaching and shut the book with a flick of his wrist, tucking it into a pocket on his right hip. It must have been customized. Wait, did all the Hufflepuff training kits have pockets? Now that would be decidedly unjust.

“Well, hello Roman!” he chirped. “What’s on your mind?”

“Care for a scrimmage?” Roman asked. 

“Sounds lovely,” he said, and stuck out a leather-gloved hand. “Here’s to a good game.”

Roman seized it and drew him into a hard, rough handshake.

“My team is going to crush yours into extremely fine dust,” Roman said.

Sadeghi leaned forward so close Roman could see the thin, glimmering rays of gold that shot through his warm brown irises. “My team is going to win,” he murmured. He squeezed Roman’s hand one last time before dropping it and speeding over towards the Hufflepuffs. 

For the second time that day, Roman was left open-mouthed and red-faced, the beginnings of a retort gone sour on his tongue. He turned tail and slunk back to the Slytherins, who of course had all been intently watching the interaction from afar. They were out of earshot, fortunately, but Roman didn’t doubt that they had filled in the gaps of the story with whatever they imagined would cause him the most humiliation.

“Beat them or we’ll be doing push-ups until your arms fall off,” Roman growled, ignoring Janus’ pointedly raised eyebrow, and winged out into a lap to blow off some steam. 

He landed on the edge of the central circle of the pitch to rendezvous with the Hufflepuffs, his team falling into place behind him.

Even without looking, he could appreciate the dramatic effect as they alighted into a perfect pyramid formation, bright green robes fanning out behind them and boots rhythmically hitting the turf at exact half-second intervals. The practice they had spent rehearsing that had been absolutely worth it, suck it, Logan.

Sadeghi’s lips were pursed in annoyance, obviously signifying his jealousy of their overwhelming panache and flair. A Hufflepuff could never.

Some students had taken to the stands and the surrounding lawn to enjoy the rare lack of rain, mingling with their friends or sitting with textbooks open on the grass beside them. The hum of amiable chatter carried over to the pitch, and Roman felt buoyed. It was always nice to have an audience. He straightened his shoulders and shot a wink and a grin in the direction of a group of Gryffindor fifth-years loitering beside the field, inflating with delight at the way they all instantly collapsed into a fit of bashful giggles and whispers.

Sadeghi and Janus both rolled their eyes.

“We need a referee,” was the first thing the yellow-clad captain said.

“What, you don’t trust us?” Janus leered. 

Sadeghi scrunched up his nose, choosing not to dignify that with a response. “And a scorekeeper.”

“Or we could just play for fun,” a Hufflepuff kid with a shock of bright pink hair offered. “We don’t need to keep score.”

“Yes, we do,” both Roman and Sadeghi snapped.

“Cade can do it,” Remy said, gesturing to a lanky blond boy, who smiled and waved. Was that the instinctive Hufflepuff response to every situation? “His wrist is all fucked so he can’t play anyway.”

Roman peered at this Cade character. Clever of them to position a spy on the ground. “Why is he at practice if he can’t play?”

“Moral support,” chirped Cade. Roman eyed him with distrust.

“Fine,” he said, “Rules?”

“Regulation, obviously. We don’t train with underground sets.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“We’re all good to go, then, I reckon,” Sadeghi said, shooting Roman yet another blinding smile, so outwardly warm, though with an undercurrent of keenness that Roman was sure he wasn’t imagining. “Best of luck to you, Roman.” He nodded at the rest of the Slytherins. “And to all of you lovely folks.”

“I hope your glasses get snapped and you run into the goal posts because you can’t see,” Roman told him. 

“They’re spelled to be unbreakable,” Sadeghi said cheerfully, “But I appreciate the concern. Okay, team, get in position!” He swept away into the sky. God fucking damnit, not again. And everybody said Roman was the theatrical one. Next time, he vowed, he was going to get the last word in or die trying. But first, he had a game to win.

* * *

They were not going to win.

Roman watched in dismay as yet another one of Remy’s shots brushed just past the tips of Bridgette’s outstretched fingers. They went in for a celebratory lap, the smug tilt of their gaze implied even from behind the reflective lenses of their sunglasses, as Cade’s magically magnified (and irritatingly upbeat) voice announced the change in score.

He made eye contact with his keeper from across the field, and she winced at something in his expression, ducking her head to avoid his gaze. Fuck. Roman tried to school his face into a more neutral position. It wasn’t Bridgette’s fault, he reminded himself. She was doing great, especially for her first year as a starter.

Still, it was hard not to feel a little bitter. They were over fifty points behind. At this stage, their only saving grace would be if Janus caught the snitch, but Roman knew that even that wouldn’t be enough to fill the angry ravine currently splintering its way through his chest. 

It wasn’t even as though the Hufflepuffs were better, when it came down to the individual players, but there was just something about the way the other team worked together. Their plays, their communication and cooperation… It was so tight, so effortless. They were so fucking nice to each other. What kind of bullshit did Sadeghi have to pull to get that to happen? And how did it work?

Roman snagged a pass from Oliver and dove about halfway down the height of the field, about level with the primary area of the stands, before flinging it to Rafaela, who fell into line across from him. The two of them slung it back and forth, staying close enough together that the other team’s chasers couldn’t intercept it. Up above them, Oliver winged in a series of forward-moving circles, the shadow of his broom blotting out a section of the striped green bars running through the pitch below.

The familiar weight and rhythm of the ball in his hands steadied Roman, the adrenaline and exhilaration of a good rally piercing even though the fog of his bad mood. He twisted into a sloth-grip roll to avoid a whizzing bludger, blanching at the loud CRACK of the bat as Logan redirected its trajectory. He didn’t have time to find out what exactly that trajectory was, though, because they were approaching the scoring box.

Sadeghi was forced to look down in order to track their approach, jaw set in concentration and knees braced against each other as he kept steady on his broom. Roman fantasized about the look that would grace Sadeghi’s stupid soft face once Slytherin inevitably displayed their destiny as the superior house-slash-team (trying to remain dignified but with his chin wobbling, Roman had decided— Sadeghi was a good enough sport to try to act professional, but not a good enough sport to manage it), and thus motivated, exploded upwards with Rafaela on his tail.

He narrowed his eyes, honing in on the gleaming gold O of the hoop and twisting his center of gravity so that his entire body weight fell behind his forward thrust. The quaffle left his hand, fast and straight and true, accompanied by the satisfying twinge of resistance in his shoulder.

Sadeghi lunged, but the quick level change from the approaching chasers caused him to lose balance, as Roman had hoped, and in the following two seconds, all in the universe was well. The sun came out from behind a cloud. The stars aligned. Every bird in the world opened its mouth and sang. The quaffle flew in a clean, smooth sweep, arching below Sadeghi’s outstretched arm and through the second-highest hoop with a pleasant woosh.

“Goal for Slytherin!” Cade said. Somehow, his voice became significantly less annoying when it was forming those three beautiful words. It was music to Roman’s ears.

“Ha!” he crowed, his triumphant exclamation joining the sound of Janus’ supportive whoop from somewhere above him.

Sadeghi’s mouth twisted as he dove after the quaffle, catching it in its magically slowed-down descent before it could pass beyond the mark halfway down the goal post.

“Good shot,” he said, winging the quaffle to Remy. Raf and Oliver dove back into play, but Roman lingered at the edge of the scoring box.

“Better luck next time,” he jeered. “Hey, tell me, how does it feel to be the worst Captain on campus?”

His eyes flashed, and Roman’s stomach did a delighted flip-flop. Sadeghi only allowed himself to be properly mean when the two of them were alone— though still in his own bizarre, courteous way— and that made the whole thing so much more fun. Sahdegi seemed loath to let the whole golden boy shtick drop when in polite company, whereas Roman was a proud and very accomplished asshole.

“I don’t know, Roman,” Sahdegi said tightly, “How does it feel?”

Roman grinned. “Not one of your better comebacks, mate.”

“Some of us are focusing on the game,” he shot back. “Though maybe I shouldn’t bother. Your team is pretty,” he paused, a shit-eating grin climbing its way onto his face, “Qu-awful.” 

Roman grimaced. “Oh, god.”

The corners of Sadeghi’s eyes crinkled up with stifled amusement. He tilted his head towards Roman, who swallowed, trying to tear his eyes away from the edge of the other boy’s jawline as it caught a strip of sunlight, painting his skin a warm, bright gold. “You like that?” 

“Uhhhhhh,” said Roman intelligently.

He was almost relieved when a shout cut through his train of thought, jerking him away from the full reboot his brain was currently experiencing. He and Sadeghi both looked up to find a blur of pink and yellow diving in the direction of the ground. The Hufflepuff seeker. Shit.

Janus, who had been surveying the other side of the pitch, plummeted after them, his blond hair and green robes unfocusing into a streaky smudge as he too picked up speed. Roman said a silent thank-you to Janus’ posh ass parents and the consequential Firebolt as his best friend managed to catch up to the other seeker. They were neck and neck, hands both outstretched and shoulders jostling each other in such an evenly matched pace that the overall effect was that of them not moving at all.

“Come on, kiddo, you got this,” he heard Sadeghi mutter. His brow was taut with concentration and he chewed at the inside of his cheek, the anxious clench of his knuckles around the handle of his broom visible even through his gloves’ thick padding.

And then something happened that Roman couldn’t quite see, and Janus tumbled off his broom and landed flat and hard on his back. The riderless Firebolt continued to shoot forward and ricocheted off the invisible barrier at the edge of the pitch, dropping into the grass with a placid plop. The Hufflepuff dismounted, triumphant, thrusting their hand in the air to show off the glint of gold peeking out from between their fingers, to a chorus of applause and whoops.

Roman didn’t stay put to watch the way Sadeghi’s face lit up with pride and joy and that wide, open, honest smile with just the right amount of teeth, not the slightly jagged one that he always aimed at Roman. He could picture it well enough.

The collection of students that had wandered over to watch the makeshift match had begun to disband, drifting off and away from the field in small chunks.

“Nice job,” the other seeker said, holding out a hand for Janus to take. He glared at it and climbed to his feet on his own, brushing pieces of grass off his training kit.

Sidling over to Roman, who had landed a short way off, he sighed and tugged his hair out of its ponytail at the base of his neck, letting it spill over his shoulders once more. “Fuck,” he said, running a hand through it try and comb it back into some semblance of its usual model-sleekness, “Sorry, mate.”

Roman slung an arm around his shoulder. “S’okay. You alright?”

He snorted and reached his free hand around to pat Roman’s cheek. “I was less than a meter up, you big sap.” The rest of the team filled in around them, wearing matching expressions of trepidation. Roman surveyed the bashful, pointed way none of them met his eyes, and any trace of anger or bitterness drained out of him all at once. He just wanted to go sit with Janus and Virgil in the dreariest, most comforting corner of the Slytherin common room and not speak and press his cheek to the cold pane of glass and watch odd squirmy things move through the bracky water outside until the sun went away. Was that too much to ask?

“No push-ups,” he told them, and was overtaken by a wave of guilt at the way they sagged in relief. “Practice is done, we’ll debrief tomorrow. I’m proud of you guys.”

He couldn’t take out his anger over his own failures on his team. His friends. He knew that he could be a piece of shit sometimes— okay, a lot of the time— but he was not quite that kind of person. At least he really, really hoped not. 

He and Janus trudged together towards the locker room, hanging some distance behind the group, not speaking. The Hufflepuff team had congregated in a semicircle near one of the goalposts, sitting cross-legged like an oversized kindergarten class. Sadeghi was giving some sort of lecture with the aid of a floating whiteboard, talking animatedly with his hands. As he spoke, an accompanying colorful pattern of notes scrawled themselves on the board as if by an invisible hand, though it was too far in the distance for Roman to make out the words.

“Don’t look at him,” Janus said. “It’s just going to piss you off.”

“It won’t piss me off.”

“Fine, then, it’ll make you sad.”

Roman didn’t have anything to say to that.

“Cheer up,” said Janus, “It was just a scrimmage.”

“I know,” Roman said, even though it wasn’t really. To him, Quidditch had never been ‘just’ anything— Not a game, or a hobby, or any of the things that adults told him it was when he got angry and threw his broom or a tantrum. Maybe it was something that he should have outgrown. Crying after Remus beat him at checkers. Shoving the neighborhood kids off their brooms so he would always win their races. Getting pissed and bickering with Sadeghi.

Winning and losing was more personal to Roman than it was to anyone else, though he didn’t really understand why. There was something in particular about the easy way Sadeghi just waved his hands or flashed that smile or whatever, and the world dropped to its knees to suck his fucking dick— Like it was nothing. Like he didn’t even have to try— that made Roman feel so small, so bitter, so hungry. 

The scoreboards wouldn’t reflect this “loss”. His friends wouldn’t think less of him. 

So why did it still sting?


	2. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman’s week, already off to an unfortunate start, gets even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: cursing, innuendo, borderline painful emotional incompetence
> 
> Remus makes one (1) appearance in this fic, which occurs during this chapter— if you don't wish to read it, skip from "grade that fucking essay, Sanders" to "the trio of sixth years" at no cost to the plot.

Roman’s week, already off to an unfortunate start, got even worse the following Monday, when Professor Sanders asked him to stay back after Charms. He stood at the front of the empty classroom, rocking back and forth on his heels as Sanders scribbled something on a rumpled sheet of parchment, one finger up in a silent signal for him to wait.

He was young enough to be Roman’s cousin or something, and seemed like a nice enough bloke, but in general, Roman didn’t make a habit of palling around with his teachers. Especially not when said teachers were also the Hufflepuff head of house.

“Sorry about that,” said Sanders at last, setting down his quill and folding his hands on the desk in front of him, “Thanks for meeting with me, Roman.”

“I didn’t reckon I had much of a choice,” Roman said before he could stop himself.

Sanders only laughed. “Fair enough. Why don’t you take a seat?”

Roman slumped into one of the two red-cushioned chairs that were positioned across the table from Sanders. It was extraordinarily comfortable, and adjusted itself so that he and his professor were eye-level with one another. Roman slumped over even further, dangling halfway off the seat with his arms crossed over his chest, and the seat obligingly raised itself up a couple more inches.

“I wanted to talk to you about your recent performance in class,” Sanders said. He took out a roll of paper and slid it across the table to Roman, who unfurled it, eyebrows lifting as he caught sight of the scarred red slashes crawling across the page, disfiguring his gorgeous handwriting. He recognized it as his most recent essay on nonverball spells, and flipped to the last page to be treated to the sight of a big, fat DREADFUL written out in Sanders’ unfairly loopy cursive. He couldn’t hold back a wince. 

True, he had written it in a single, feverish sitting the night before it was due, and he had flat-out invented at least half the books listed in the bibliography, and Janus had refused to edit it for him because he was still pressed about the time when Roman and Virgil had spelled his hair green… But still! Roman had been pulling essays out of his ass for his entire school career, and it had never failed him before.

“I’ve gotten better grades for worse,” Roman told Sanders, who sighed, and leaned forward in a conspiratorial way that signified that Roman ought to settle in for a Superficially Encouraging Scolding.

“I think you’re very clever,” Sanders began. It was such a bald-faced lie that Roman fought down the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently, Sanders had been keeping up with Witch Weekly’s banal How To Talk To Slytherins articles. “You do extremely well in practical work, and I appreciate your contributions to our discussions.”

That had to be another lie. Roman’s “contributions” either involved asking overly specific questions or playing dumb about of basic concepts, both executed with the intent to devolve the class into off-topic tangents.

“However, I hate to bring it up, but—” Sanders sighed again. Roman seemed to have that effect on him. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that students with less than Acceptable grades in two or more classes are not eligible to play on their house Quidditch team.”

Cool, pure horror curdled in Roman’s chest.

“Sir,” he said, sitting straight up, “Please, I—”

Sanders held up a hand. “I’m not saying this to threaten you. You’re currently at an Acceptable, so your position is safe.” His gaze softened. “But, frankly, I’m a bit worried. Your grades have been slipping a lot since the beginning of the school year, and I know that’s the case in more than just this class.”

Roman didn’t want to look at Sanders, his wide concerned eyes, all warm and fatherly and shit. Sickening. “I have a lot going on right now,” he mumbled in the direction of the scuffed, pointy tip of his left shoe.

“I understand,” Sanders said, understandingly. “I know it’s difficult to balance your time, with Quidditch and all. Well, sort of. I wasn’t much into sports growing up. I was more of a theater kid, myself.”

Roman eyed Sanders’ bright purple bangs. “I can see that.”

“But it can be done.” The expression on his pleasant face hardened into something sterner as he steepled his fingers in front of his stomach, elbows propped up on the armrest of his high-backed chair. “Especially by a mind as bright as yours.”

He was really laying it on thick today.

Suddenly, Sanders perked up and snapped his fingers like something had just occurred to him. “There’s a young man in my House— Patton Sadeghi? I’m sure you know of him.”

“We’ve met,” Roman ground out.

“Oh, excellent,” Sanders said, “I know he’s struggled with balancing Quidditch and schoolwork in the past, so it might help the two of you to talk sometime. Share a few tips.”

Roman could not picture Sadeghi ‘struggling’. He bet that the tosser had never gotten a Dreadful in his life. “Maybe,” Roman muttered.

“I’m not asking for miracles. I’m not trying to force you to go for a Charms N.E.W.T. if that’s not what you want, but I know you can do better than  _ this _ .” He gestured to the red-splattered essay and Roman felt something curl up in his lungs and die. 

He didn’t care what Sanders thought of him, he reminded himself. He was going to Captain the Slytherin Quidditch team into two consecutive Cup victories, get signed by Puddlemere straight out of Hogwarts, and become rich and famous and play on the national team and retire at an appropriate age and live out the rest of his life in leisure and luxury.

Charms didn’t matter. Charms had nothing to do with it. He was going to bullshit his way into an Acceptable, and that was  _ it _ .

“Roman,” said Sanders. Against his will, Roman looked up. His professor smiled at him. When he spoke, his voice was almost unbearably kind. “Promise me you’ll try.”

Merlin’s fucking beard.

“I guess,” he said. “Can I go now?”

Sanders let out a long breath, face falling, as if somehow disappointed. What the hell was he expecting, that Roman would collapse to the ground in gratitude? Avow his dedication to the noble art of Charms? “Alright, I suppose I’ve kept you long enough.”

Roman scooped up his books and swept out of the classroom without looking back.

He stormed into the corridor outside the classroom in a supreme fit of pique. Everybody was wrong, he thought angrily, Hufflepuffs were not nice. They were cruel little smiley bastards all working together to ruin Roman’s life.

He was loudly stomping through the hallway in the hopes that everybody in the vicinity would hear and therefore share in his irritation. Janus and Virgil hadn’t bothered to wait for him after class, the assholes, and were probably idling around on the lawn outside, so he directed his footsteps towards the front exit after them.

Prior to that meeting, Roman hadn’t been planning on doing homework during his free period, but now he  _ really _ wasn’t, out of spite. Maybe, instead, he should write a paper about why Hufflepuffs were actually the worst (grade  _ that _ fucking essay, Sanders).

He had just started to turn the corner at the end of the hall when a small person leapt out from behind a suit of armor and onto Roman’s back with a loud battle cry, almost sending him stumbling headlong into the wall.

“Remus!” Roman snapped, twisting around to try and catch a glimpse of the cackling face now buried in his shoulder. He swatted at the arms locked around his neck, which were doing a wonderful job of crushing his windpipe, before giving up on subtlety. He pried his younger brother off him, with some difficulty, and deposited him in a heap on the wooden floor. 

“Hey, Ro!” chirped Remus, grinning and displaying the perpetual gap between his two front teeth. His blue-and-silver tie was wrapped around his forehead like a sweatband, Roman noted with disdain. At least it was sort of keeping his wild mop of hair out of his eyes. 

“Don’t you have class right now?”

He made a face. “I didn’t feel like going.”

Roman rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could sense a headache coming on. “Alright, up you get. I’m taking you back. What class was it?”

“Divination.”

“Oh,” Roman said, “Never mind.” He poked Remus with his shoe. “Why’re you taking that drivel, anyway?”

“Logan said it would be easy,” Remus whined, “But it’s just  _ boring _ .”

“That’s what you get for listening to Logan,” Roman said. He held out a hand and hauled his to his feet, aggrieved but not unsurprised to discover that the smaller boy’s hand was appallingly sticky. “Feel like going for a walk?”

Remus brightened. “Can we visit the thestrals?”

“Maybe some other time,” Roman said, hiding a wince. He hated the thestrals. The black, empty eyes that seemed to follow him, mournful and heavy with reproach, the spindly bodies and translucent, veiny skin… It gave him the creeps. They were probably more fun for Remus, whose perception of them was limited to ‘invisible horse friend’. 

They walked out of the castle together, Remus rambling excitedly about the various products he and Logan had picked up from Zonko’s during their first Hogsmeade weekend, his recent discovery that you could transform a confusing concoction into an explosive if you doubled the amount of porcupine quills, and the Howler that a sixth-year girl received at lunch the previous day about the unfamiliar pair of pants her boyfriend had discovered in her dorm, and did you hear it, Roman, wasn’t it brilliant, d’you think I could make one?

The prospect of Remus being able to screech profanities at him from outside of hexing range was terrifying enough that Roman trotted out a lie about the advanced magic it would take to operate them. That might prove to be a mistake, since his brother seemed to take it as a challenge.

One lap around the Great Lake and half a lecture speculating about whether a Howler could be rigged in order to produce a larger, more destructive explosion later, Remus stopped in his tracks and put his hands on his hips, frowning up at Roman like a small, grubby professor. “Alright, what’s got your dick in a twist?”

Roman choked. “Rem! Language!”

“You swear all the time.”

“Once you turn sixteen, it’s allowed,” Roman informed him, flicking him in the shoulder. “And nothing’s wrong. It’s just school.”

“You don’t give a shit about school,” Remus said, which was true, but was one of those things that didn’t need to be  _ said _ .

Roman let out a huff of breath and sat down in the still-dewy grass. He felt the ground shake as Remus threw himself beside him, flopping onto his back with a loud THUMP, his arms and legs starfished out at his sides. Roman followed suit, folding his hands over his stomach.

“Maybe mom was right,” he said. “We should’ve gone to Fenghuang instead.”

“We don’t speak Mandarin.”

“Well, obviously we would if we went to school in China.” He watched a cloud that looked like an underfed chimera doing contortion inch its way across the filmy gray sky. “I used to know it when I was little, remember? I just forgot.”

Remus still looked pensive. “Do they have a Quidditch team?”

“Duh,” said Roman. “It’s bloody good, too. And the school has a giant murderous snake that lives in a cave on the grounds and you can visit it.” That, at least, seemed to draw Remus’ interest. Roman paused. “Plus, there’s no  _ Hufflepuffs _ .”

“Oh, is this about your and Patton’s thing?” said Remus, wrinkling his nose. “Because no offense, but I don’t really want to hear about your sex life.”

Roman made another, more strangled, choking noise, propping himself up on his elbow so as to fix Remus with a horrified stare. “My— my WHAT? Pat— I mean, Sadeghi— has nothing to do with my—” He clamped his mouth shut, face aflame. He was not going to have this conversation with his younger brother. He was not going to entertain the mere thought of it. “What do you mean, our  _ thing _ ?”

“The whole—” He waved his hand at Roman, which quickly turned into an obscene hand gesture. “Rivalry business. With the  _ energy _ .”

“What  _ energy _ ?!” 

“ _ The _ energy,” said Remus, as if that cleared up anything at all. “People in my year talk about it a lot. They ask me sometimes, ‘cause you’re my brother, so I’ve been telling them that you’ve been in love with him since fourth year and also that you have a tattoo of a lethifold on your ass. So if you get any weird looks, that’s why.”

“A lethifold is literally just a black shroud,” Roman said, lying back down in the hopes that being prone would aid his poor brain as it frantically tried and failed to process the remainder of that horrifying statement, “That would be a fucking terrible tattoo.”

Remus fell into peals of ringing laughter, and Roman felt amusement creep up on him as well. When Remus had first started at Hogwarts, he had thought it was going to be horrible, and for a while, it had. Their early, stilted attempts to “hang out”, prompted by strongly worded letters from their mother, tended to end in screaming, or crying, or both. Roman wasn’t sure what exactly had changed, or when, that made Remus… kinda sorta bearable all of a sudden. Maybe it was just the magic of growing up.

Apropos of nothing, Remus’ laughter came to a halt and he sat bolt upright. He squinted at something in the distance, then broke out into a grin. “Viiiiir-gil!” he sang, springing to his feet and loping away, footsteps squelching against the grass.

Roman sat up, too, and saw Janus and Virge making their way across the grass towards them. He got up and half-jogged after Remus, rejoining the group just as his brother tackled Virgil into a bruising hug.

“Hey, uh. Fucker,” said Virgil, awkwardly patting his shoulder. 

“Hiii,” said Janus, in a voice better directed at a preschooler than a preteen, crouching down to speak to Remus despite the fact this made him significantly shorter than the boy in question. “How’s… school?”

Remus stared at him for a second and then refocused his energy on Virgil, beginning to regale him with the tale of the detonating confusing concoction that Roman had already been treated to earlier. Instead of listening, he elected to give Janus a sympathetic clap on the back. 

“You’re shit with kids,” he informed his friend. “And, you know, people.”

“Maybe everybody else is shit with  _ me _ ,” said Janus snippily.

“Right, you’re just that big of a deal.”

“Obviously.” He fluffed his hair. “What did Sanders want, anyway?”

Roman scowled, kicking a stray pine cone out of his path. Without speaking about it, they somehow collectively decided to make their way back towards the castle for lunch. Around them, other students were pouring out from the greenhouse and the forest, and it was easy to fall into the rhythm of their shared destination. “I Dreadful’d my fucking essay.” 

Janus made a noise of sympathy.

“He gave me that speech about wasted potential and the rest. You know how it goes.”

“Not really,” said Janus, not unkindly, “Because I don’t get those sort of speeches. Because I have straight O’s.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“Whatever, mate, we all know it doesn’t matter.” He bumped their shoulders together. “Grades are a construct, school is a prison, yadda, yadda. You’re the best chaser this school has seen in ages. Once you get to the big leagues, who cares if you can’t write?”

“I can  _ write _ ,” Roman said hotly.

Janus held up his hands in defense. “I know that. It’s a figure of speech.”

“Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know how to be a nice person,” Virgil said, coming up beside him and leaning an elbow on his shoulder. Remus was trailing at his other side, intently eavesdropping. His innate aversion to going more than thirty seconds without speaking had at last given way to the only force in the universe with equal power: Nosiness about Roman’s personal problems. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks,” Roman sighed. “I love you. You’re my best friend now.”

Virgil looked affronted. “I wasn’t before?”

“Janus was mean to Sadeghi on Saturday, so.”

Mentioning Sadeghi was, as ever, a mistake. Right on cue, Virgil, Janus, and Remus broke into a chorus of lewd “ooh”s, accompanied by some impressive eyebrow waggling choreography. Did they practice that in their spare time? He valiantly managed to ignore them all the way to the Great Hall, at which point Remus disappeared off to the Ravenclaw table to go plot anarchy or whatever it was that nerds did for fun. 

The trio of sixth years took their usual seat at near the end of the Slytherin table, which was preferable to Gryffindor because, firstly, they outnumbered Virgil two to one, and secondly, the Gryffindors had an annoying habit of tossing shit at Roman and Janus on the few occasions that they wandered over to that side of the room.

Roman selected a sandwich from a platter and pried it open to examine the contents.

“They’re good, don’t be weird,” said Virgil, who was already halfway through one of his own. Roman, disinclined to trust him about culinary matters, continued his inspection.

“You think that everything  _ vaguely _ edible is good,” Janus pointed out. “Remember that time in third year Herbology?”

Virgil elbowed him. “Didn’t we swear never to speak of that again?”

“Let’s uphold that, please, for the sake of my appetite,” Roman said. Alas, sauerkraut. He reached for a knife and attempted to fish it out from within the muddled, pale sauce.

“Hullo,” said a very familiar voice. Roman whipped his head up to find Sadeghi standing there, plate in hand, smiling somewhat uneasily at the open hostility being aimed at him by almost the entirety of the Slytherin table.

A sprout fell off the end of Janus’ fork, halfway between his plate and his open mouth.

“Hey, Pat,” said Virgil amiably. “What’s up?”

“Is this seat taken?” He pointed at the segment of bench that Janus’ long legs were currently occupying.

Janus blinked a few times. “No,” he said, but didn’t move.

Sadeghi’s smile was beginning to look a little strained at the edges. “Can I sit?”

Roman was too busy pinching himself under the table to answer. Janus started to move his leg off, very slowly, staring at Sadeghi as if expecting him to flee or yell “HAHA! GOT YOU!” or point and laugh or something.

Instead of any of this, he said, “Thank you,” and sat, setting down his plate and reaching for a sandwich. He pointedly ignored the way Janus, Roman, and a majority of the surrounding students were watching him in sheer confusion.

Roman felt the hard, sharp pressure of a boot coming down on his toes, and he swiveled to glare at Virgil. Judging from the matching look Janus was aiming his way, he had gotten the same treatment. Virgil took a placid sip of pumpkin juice.

“How’s Herbology going for you?” he asked. “I was thinking of dropping it next year, since I don’t really need the credit, but I dunno.”

Sadeghi looked supremely relieved to have something to focus on other than soggy corned beef. “Oh, it’s such a good class,” he said. “I found the sixth year course a little boring, personally, but now this year it’s more hands-on, and I just love it. But it is a  _ lot _ of work. I mean, I think it’s important— what are you thinking of doing after Hogwarts?”

“Auror training, maybe,” said Virgil. “I like hexing people.”

Sadeghi nodded as if that was valid reasoning. “How about you guys?” he asked the other two, who exchanged looks with each other before answering.

“Still deciding,” Janus drawled, flashing his pearly whites in a move that was more a baring of teeth than anything else. “Maybe I’ll go into politics.”

Sadeghi looked slightly ill at the prospect.

“Quidditch,” said Roman.

“Ah, yes, of course.” Sadeghi was making a concerted effort not to sound exasperated.

“Roman here has been planning on going pro since, what,” said Janus, who knew full well ‘since what’, “Age ten?”

“Eight, actually.” Roman swiped a chip from the edge of Virgil’s plate and popped it into his mouth. At that age, it was less of a plan than a daydream, and then as time wore on he simply forgot to outgrow it.

“Well, I bet you’ll get signed,” said Sadeghi. “You’re very good.”

Roman scoffed, offended. “I’m better than  _ good _ .”

This time, Sadeghi didn’t quite manage to tamp down an eye roll. 

“I think I might want to be a Healer,” he offered, even though nobody had asked. “It’s supposed to be really hard, academically, but it just sounds  _ so _ rewarding, don’t you think?” 

“Rewarding in a mental breakdown, maybe,” said Roman. Of course Sadeghi was the sort to get off on saving people. He probably lay awake at night fantasizing about weeping old bats wringing his hand and thanking him for curing their dying grandchildren.

“My cousin Aubyn was a Healer,” said Janus, “He was assigned to treat this bloke who transfigured his own brain into string, and Aub accidentally killed him when trying to fix it and he went bonkers with guilt.” He wiped his mouth primly with the edge of a lacy eggshell-white napkin, which he had brought from home. “Now he’s a patient in his own ward.”

Virgil made a face. “Well, thanks a mil for that.”

“Stop bringing up your weird freaky family shit at mealtimes,” Roman accused. “Stop it. None of us want to hear about how inbred you are.”

“I’m sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen often,” Sadeghi said queasily.

“What, the inbreeding?” said Roman. “Mate, it’s  _ horrifying _ . Bloody Purebloods. Almost all of Slytherin is related if you trace back far enough.” He paused. “Except me, obviously.” The main benefit of his heritage being consolidated on a different continent entirely was the ability to snog whoever he wanted without consulting a family tree first.

“I sort of meant the insanity thing, but that’s interesting also,” said Sadeghi.

“It’s not just wizards, though,” Virgil pointed out. “The royal family? Yikes.”

“There’s Muggle royalty?” said Janus, fascinated. “I didn’t know they could be rich.”

“Oh yeah,” said Roman. “I have a Muggle friend back in Acton, and she showed me those moving story picture things they’ve got? There’s one about the kings and queens and all and it’s  _ ridiculous _ .”

“You watch The Crown?” Sadeghi sounded extremely amused by this. “What am I saying, of course you do.”

“I haven’t seen the third book yet so don’t you dare tell me what happens,” Roman said. “Val and I are going to watch it over winter hols.”

“You mean the third season?”

“Yes, right, that’s what I said.”

Sadeghi giggled. “You know, I could see you as some sort of prince.”

“It’s all that natural charm of mine,” Roman sniffed in his best approximation of a posh accent, realizing how silly it sounded about halfway through and dissolving into a grin. 

Roman suddenly realized that he was grinning at  _ Sadeghi _ , who was grinning back, and it was all very amiable and terrible. He couldn’t take this anymore. He set down his sandwich and leaned over the table towards Sadeghi, narrowing his eyes. “Alright, spill. What do you want?”

His brow contorted in innocent bewilderment, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. “What are you talking about?”

“Cut the shit, Sadeghi.” Roman jabbed his fork at him. “We’re not friends. You obviously want something. What is it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I want to be friends.”

“Sure,” he said dubiously.

“Orrrr,” Sadeghi said, “Maybe I’m just curious about what life is like on the other side of the fence.” A pause. “Where the grass is  _ greener _ .” He winked and reached out to tug on Roman’s tie, yanking him down so that they were both bent eye-to-eye over the surface of the lunch table. Roman jerked away and retreated further back into his seat, determined to put a healthy distance between his inexplicably flushing cheeks and Sadeghi’s shrewd, pleased smile.

“I’d prefer the first one,” said Virgil, the wanker.

“Aw, Virgil,” Sadeghi beamed, patting his shoulder, “We’re already friends.”

“Oh,” Virgil mulled it over. “Oh yeah, I guess we are. Nice.”

Sadeghi swung towards Janus, expectant. Janus leaned back to scrutinize his expression, drumming his fingers on the edge of the bench. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll play. Still not sure what this is about, but it’s always fun to make Roman go mad.”

Sadeghi beamed. “I appreciate that very much, Janus.”

“Yeah, no,” said Janus, “First names are a level four friendship privilege.”

“What level am I on?” Virgil asked.

Janus thought about it. “Eleven and a half.”

“How about me?” Roman fluttered his eyelashes at him.

“Nine on a good day.”

“What?!” Roman wailed, “How the hell is Virgil higher up than me?”

“Patton’s a one-point-four if that makes you feel better.”

Roman spent the remainder of lunch pestering Janus about the criteria for the various tiers, which Roman was fairly sure he was making up on the spot. It also had to be rigged. Unless Janus and Virgil were secretly snogging each other or something there was no  _ way _ that Roman could be a full two and a half levels behind.

Another advantage of this thread of conversation was that Sadeghi had no frame of reference through which to make contributions, so instead he sat there eating his sandwich like a puzzled but eager puppy, which, though distracting in its own way, made him easier to ignore.

Roman was in the middle of trying to get bumped up to a 9.6 by reminding Janus about the terrible stick-and-pokes they gave each other in fourth year when Sadeghi interrupted him by announcing that he ought to go if he didn’t want to be late for DADA. He gathered up his things, chirped out a “Bye!”, and skipped away.

“Well,” said Janus once he had gone, “That was weird.”

“He’s up to something,” Roman decided. “I just don’t know what.”

Virgil sighed heavily. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother reminding you that not everybody’s life revolves around scheming.”

“No,” said Roman, “Probably not.”


	3. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Potions class goes deeply sideways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: yelling, arguing, crying, general Bad Feelings, unresolved angst (as of the end of the chapter)
> 
> While writing this I spent way too long frantically brainstorming which obscure Shorts character should be the Potions professor because "I can't just make it Snape!" and then I thought to myself..... Wait, why CAN'T I?

Roman was already irritable when he slunk into double Potions the next morning, having stayed up most of the night rewriting his Charms essay. Continuing this class at the N.E.W.T level was proving to be the biggest mistake of his life. He fervently wished that he had done the sensible thing and dropped it when he had the chance, but mom had just been so thrilled that he had passed the O.W.L, and, well, there was a reason he wasn’t in Gryffindor.

Being able to partner with Janus was the only thing keeping him above a Dreadful. There was no chance for him to scrape a pass in Potions at this point in the semester, so extra work in Charms it was.

He tossed his bag onto the floor of the dungeon and dropped into a seat beside Virgil and Janus with a loud, dramatic huff. Neither of them acknowledged his presence, too focused on a frantic game of rock-paper-scissors. Ever since Virgil had introduced it to Janus and Roman back in first year, it had become their standard method of decision making. Roman had no idea what squabble his friends were trying to settle now, but he figured he would hear about it soon enough.

Snape was standing at the front of the room, contemptuously flipping through the pages of  _ Advanced Potion Making _ and looking oily as ever. Roman didn’t particularly  _ like _ the man, but he had a certain amount of respect for his dramatics, and for the fact that he mostly turned a blind eye to Roman’s various shenanigans. His hair, however, was a burden on the legacy of Slytherin house.

Watching the enchanted candlelight flicker across his professor’s greasy scalp was beginning to make Roman feel a little nauseous, so he started to survey the rest of the room. It was only then that Roman noticed a couple handfuls of seventh years standing at the side of the classroom, talking amongst themselves.

He nudged Virgil. “What are they doing here?”

Virgil shrugged. “I dunno. Reckon we’ll find out soon enough.” His scissors got crushed beneath Janus’ rock and he swore, tucking his hands back into his pockets.

“Your boyfriend’s there,” Janus trilled, poking Roman.

As if on cue, Sadeghi looked over at them and tossed up a small smile and a wave, which Roman instinctively returned, to Virgil’s and Janus’ audible delight.

Snape rapped his knuckles on the surface of his desk and the students fell silent.

“Today we will be culminating our study and analysis of the Draught of Living Death,” he said in his usual hushed tones, pacing back and forth across the length of the classroom. His long black robes billowed majestically behind him like sails in the wind. Roman wondered if Snape had done some sort of charm on them, and if so, whether Roman should and/or could repurpose it to spice up the Quidditch team’s entrance choreography.

“I’m sure the more observant among you have noticed that my seventh year students are joining us today. I thought the synthesis prudent, as they must practice making the potion in order to pass their N.E.W.T.s— '' He enunciated each letter individually, instead of doing the human thing and smushing them into ‘newts’. “— And you must practice making the potion in order to pass this class.”

Snape was trying to pare down his workload, then. Roman could sympathise, though he had no intention of passing Potions, much less studying for a N.E.W.T. Janus already had his textbook opened to the appropriate page and was skimming through the crisp, succinct annotations that crawled the margins.

“Against my better judgement, Snape continued, pausing near the edge of the classroom for theatrical effect. His perpetually pinched expression curled even farther in on itself, like he had just had an extra shot of disdain in with his coffee. “I will trust your capability to manage this feat, based on what we have learned over the past few classes. Find a partner and get to work. Dilly-dallying comes at your own expense.”

Janus’ hand shot into the air. “Professor!” he called. 

Snape whirled on him. “Absolutely not,” he said, “I have learned my lesson with you three.” On either side of Janus, Roman and Virgil grinned, pleased and guilty, respectively. “I am no fool, Mr. Avery. Everybody will work in  _ pairs _ .”

The classroom sprang back into life as people hurried to get to work, but the trio stayed put, glancing warily amongst each other. Nobody wanted to be the unlucky soul that would end up getting forced out into the wilderness to work with one of the other pathetic, partnerless spares. It seemed that the Amortentia incident from the previous week had caused Snape to wise up at last.

Roman considered his odds. He knew he was the worst at Potions out of the three, which should have been a disadvantage, but Janus liked to be in charge (AKA do the work by himself and relegate his unfortunate partner to chopping) and Roman was the one person in class who wouldn’t try and curtail those instincts. Roman and Virgil, on the other hand, would probably get distracted, skip a step, and end up giving themselves boils.

“Rock-paper-scissors?” Virgil offered, after a minute or so of tense eye contact.

Roman was rolling up his sleeves, feeling reasonably confident (Virgil almost always played rock) when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Sadeghi, which  _ almost _ didn’t surprise Roman, considering how his life had been going lately. His hair looked different today, a little neater than usual, and his glasses were perched askew on his nose, making his face look lopsided and soft. Roman fought the inexplicable urge to reach out and adjust them.

“Uh, hi, Roman,” Sadeghi said, “Want to work with me?”

Roman did not make a shocked gurgling noise, thank you very much. He was a calm, collected, and upright individual. Janus’ elbow collided with the small of his back, propelling him in Sadeghi’s general direction, and Roman almost face planted into the desk.

“He would love nothing more,” Janus said.

“In fact, he was just getting up the courage to ask you,” Virgil added.

“It’s a lifelong dream.”

“The start of a very specific fantasy, one might say.”

“Ha ha ha,” scowled Roman, gathering up his books since it seemed that he had no further choice in the matter. Thrown to the wolves by none other than his dearest friends. Love really was dead.

“Toodle-oo!” Janus sang with a cheerful waggle of his fingers, grinning suggestively. As soon as Sadeghi turned to head towards an empty desk near the back of the room, Janus and Virgil joined forces to make an obscene hand gesture. Roman flipped them off. 

When he reached the table, Sadeghi had one hand braced against the lip of the table, supporting his weight as he leaned over his open textbook. It was a battered, dog-eared copy, the corners of the cover worn down into nubs. He chewed his lower lip as he trailed a finger down the list of ingredients.

He noticed Roman’s approach and looked up. “Alright!” he chirped, in that same eager, bright voice he used when explaining Quidditch plays. “Let’s get started, then. I’ve already made it a couple times, so I can take the lead if you want.”

One part of Roman didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but the other part remembered that it was really, really shit at potions. “Sure, whatever,” he said, flopping into the seat beside Sadeghi. There was no way for him to take a look at the textbook without crowding up against the other boy, and he had lost his about three weeks into the semester, so he just sat there and watched as Sadeghi hmm-ed at the recipe. Then, he marked the page with a piece of yellow ribbon and ran off to the supply closet, but not before asking Roman to light the burner “if it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Roman rolled his eyes at his retreating back. Passive aggressive as ever. At a mere flick of his wand, the blue flame leapt up from the between the burner’s metal incisors and pawed eagerly at the base of the cauldron. He added the requisite 400 mL of standard potioning water, too, and sat back in his seat to watch the flame dance, the aquamarine hue providing a welcome pop of color against the dreary, muted color palette of the dungeon.

Why was Sadeghi being so… nice? No, nice wasn’t the right word. He was always nice. Even when he was being mean, he was nice. Ever since yesterday, he had been  _ weird _ -nice. Sitting with them at lunch could be waved off as wanting to befriend, say, Virgil, who had that guileless, adopt-me! look about him that drew Sadeghi so, if the younger years that trailed him at all turns were any indication.

To refine the question: Why would Sadeghi want to pair with him in Potions? He obviously didn’t realize how hopelessly bad of a student Roman was. Maybe Roman gave off the aura of a proficient potioner. He snorted at that notion. If that was the case, Sadeghi was in for a surprise.

Or maybe… Roman had a terrible thought. Maybe Sadeghi was taking  _ pity _ on him. The idea dropped into his gut like a stone and sat there, heavy and hard to swallow. His fingers twitched. Fuck this. He didn’t need pity from anyone, least of all Sadeghi— Or Sanders, for that matter. He wanted desperately to get up and rejoin Janus and Virgil, who were laughing together across the room. Probably at him. 

“I’m back!” Sadeghi announced, releasing an armful of various nasty-looking liquids in crystal jars onto the desk with a resounding clatter. He plopped down into his chair and pushed the textbook between them so they could both read it.

Roman tried to shove aside the leaden feeling in his gut, and stretched out his legs under the table, leaning his arm against the top rail and letting a small smile play across his lips. Contrary to conventional wisdom, not  _ all _ of Roman’s ideas were winners, anyway. Perhaps Sadeghi had just wanted a little fun. Well, Roman could play that game.

“So soon?” he sighed, tipping his head back to peer at Sadeghi out of the corner of his eye. “The silence was so lovely.”

Sagedhi swallowed and suddenly became very engrossed in fumbling with the cap on a medium-sized vial that Roman recognized as Infusion of Wormwood. “Must be,” he said, “Since you don’t seem to experience a lot of it.”

“Why, because of the chattering crowd of admirers surrounding me at all times?”

“I meant because you’re such a charming, talkative guy, of course,” Sadeghi said, aiming a wink at him. “It’s admirable. You have... a  _ lot _ to say.”

“Damn right I do.” Roman pointed to the container that Sadeghi was still struggling to pry open. “Need help with that?”

He hesitated, but reluctantly handed it over. 

“Watch and learn,” Roman said grandly, making a show of wrapping his fingers around the stopper. He was fully prepared to yank it out on the first try and rub his obviously superior strength in Sadeghi’s face until the end of time, but it didn’t budge. “What the hell?” 

“Not so easy, is it?” said Sadeghi, sounding awfully smug for someone who hadn’t been able to open it, either. “Here, give it, don’t strain yourself.”

“No, no, I got it,” Roman insisted. He gave another, harder tug. The momentum nearly toppled him out of his chair. “Holy shit.”

Sadeghi laughed, not unkindly. “Let me try again.”

“Who’s the chaser, here?”

“Who’s the  _ keeper _ ?” He plucked the bottle from Roman, and fought with it for a few moments before giving up and setting it on the table, fixing it with a disappointed, parental frown, hands on his hips. “Well, that’s not very sportsmanlike of you,” he told it.

Roman snorted. “Have you tried asking nicely?”

“I’m the expert at asking nicely.” He bit down on his lower lip to suppress a smile, an action which Roman, obviously, hardly even noticed. What business would he have with that? “Consent is important.”

Lacking an adequate response to  _ that _ , Roman reached for the vial again, reminded himself that he was hot, strong, and capable of great things, and pulled on the cork with every ounce of energy he could muster. Naturally, nothing happened. Somebody somewhere up above had a masochistic sense of humor. 

“Darn,” said Sadeghi. “Should we get Snape?” They both grimaced at the idea.

“Wait a minute,” said Roman. “Shouldn’t we just... use... magic?”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

A smile twitched its way onto Sadeghi’s face, and then he was laughing, and Roman realized he was too. It was so comprehensibly ridiculous. They had been so wrapped up in trying to one-up each other that they forgot they were fucking  _ wizards _ . 

Between giggles, Sadeghi waved out his wand and choked out the correct incantation. The stopper flew out of the bottle and dropped onto the table beside it with a little DINK noise, which set them both off again.

“Oh, Sadeghi,” Roman sighed once he had calmed down, wiping away a false tear, “We’re a couple of fools, you and I. Though perhaps one is more so than the other.”

Sadeghi patted his arm. “That’s big of you to admit,” he said, then wrinkled his nose as if struck by a bothersome realization. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why do you call me that?”

“What, your name?”

“My name’s  _ Patton _ . We know each other well enough, don’t you think?” 

Roman was about to say that they didn’t know each other at all— they were level .7 friends at most— but then he realized that he had sort of spent the last few years obsessively cataloguing his mannerisms. 

He knew that Sadeghi talked with his hands, and chewed on his lip when he was thinking, and hated it when Roman called him “sunshine”. He knew he was really shit at chess, and put an absurd amount of cinnamon in his oatmeal, and got this wicked pleased little smile on his face whenever he managed to make Roman go speechless and stuttering, so different from the huge, sunny grin that he wore everywhere else— And only ever aimed at Roman.

“I guess,” he said, then tacked on, “Patton.”

They worked in silence for a little while as Roman minced the asphodel and  _ Patton _ (god, that was weird) stirred the faintly bubbling potion. The lack of speech seemed to make him antsy, because soon, he launched into the tale of the first time he had attempted to make the Draught. Apparently, adding the valerian root too soon caused it to turn (horror of horrors) blue instead of lilac. Riveting!

He was gratified to learn that Patton was not the best storyteller. If nothing else, Roman could take comfort in the fact that his own anecdotes were always perfectly paced and acted for maximum drama. Patton may have been nicer, and funnier, and smarter, and prettier, but Roman could spin a trip into Hogsmeade into an enthralling novel-length saga if he set his mind to it. Also, he was better at Quidditch. 

It occurred to him that, while he had been distracted, the two of them had fallen into some kind of easy companionship. The realization settled on his shoulders, heavy and conspicuous as a sodden suitcoat. It made him feel weirdly vulnerable. He reminded himself he still couldn’t be sure of Patton’s motivations, but that only made him feel worse.

Roman passed the asphodel over to Patton, who dumped it into the cauldron, producing a cloud of pink smoke that hung in the air for a few seconds before vanishing. He then embarked on a complicated, rhythmic pattern of stirring, which Roman ignored in favor of reading over the textbook page for guidance on the next step: Slicing the sopophorous beans.

After a minute, he became aware of the tight, pointed prickle on the back of his neck that meant somebody was watching him. He looked up. “What?”

Patton, caught in the act, glanced away, and hesitated. “You’re doing that wrong,” he said at last.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Roman said crossly. The thin strips of sopophorous bean were perfectly uniform. They looked fantastic. It was possibly the best thing he’d ever done in his life.

“You’re supposed to crush them, not cut them.” Patton snatched the cutting board and knife away from Roman, and demonstrated, throwing his weight behind the flat of the blade and sending juice spurting across the table. There was a Remus-esque joke in there somewhere, but figuring out what it was wasn’t the first thing on Roman’s mind.

“It says ‘cut’, right here, can’t you read?”

“Well, it’s better if you crush it.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that? I’m not a bloody legilimens.”

“Didn’t Snape tell you?”

Roman scoffed. “Mate, you think I listen in class?”

Patton’s mouth twisted with disapproval, but he didn’t respond.

“Oi.” Roman poked him. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, your face did,” Roman said, plowing forward before Patton could realize how ridiculous the construction of that sentence was. “What’s your problem?” 

“ _ My _ problem?” Patton asked. “It’s sweet of you to worry, really, but I don’t have a problem. I’m doing great. In all my classes, in fact.” Janus threw those kinds of barbs at him all the time, but somehow, coming from Patton, it hurt in new, exciting ways. 

“Sorry,” Patton said quickly, “I think everybody is smart in their own way. But I just, you know... It grinds my gears a little when people... don’t  _ try _ .”

Roman bristled. “I try,” he said, “Of course I try.”

“No, you don't,” Patton snapped. Roman recoiled a little, struck with the realization that he had never actually seen Patton  _ angry _ . He wasn’t quite at that point, yet, but his voice had taken on a new, unfamiliar edge that Roman didn’t like. “You start to, a little, and then as soon as you hit a single obstacle you give up.”

“Easy for you to say,” Roman said, “You don’t even  _ have _ to try.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re so...” Roman flapped his hand at him. The appropriate word failed to present itself, so Roman settled for a frustrated ‘ngh’. “Just because something is easy for you doesn’t mean you get to act all condescending about it.”

Patton held up his hands in defense. “I’m not trying to be condescending, I’m just trying to understand.”

Roman scowled down at the cutting board, littered with the remains of his apparently incorrect work. It was true. The bean that Patton had smashed had released a lot more liquid than the julienned ones. “Well, clearly you don’t, so.”

Patton sighed. “Let’s just drop it, alright?” He turned back to the cauldron and gave the ladle a hostile swish.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They fell back into silence, though a much tenser version than before. Roman used his blade to squash a bean, the silver fluid spurting across the board and his fingers. It had an unpleasant, grainy texture, and was oddly warm. Using the knife, he scraped the beans off the chopping board and into the pot, ignoring Patton’s grimace at the resulting grating sound. 

“Why do you care, anyway?” said Roman. The potion had turned a tranquil purple, the color of a starless night sky.

Patton frowned. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“It’s not like it’s any of your business, is it, what I do or don’t do.”

“I just...” He paused. “I thought... we might be a little similar, maybe.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint,” said Roman. “We’re not.”

“I’m getting that sense, too.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it, such a harsh contrast to his airy giggling from earlier. “I don’t know what Sanders was thinking.”

Roman was not smart. It was something he knew with such certainty that it didn’t even sting to think. But he was a Slytherin, and he was  _ clever _ .

And at that moment, several things fell into place.

“Oh,” he heard himself say, as if from very far away. “I think I understand.” The feet of his chair scraped against the craggy stone floor as it slid back from the table, and then he was standing up, gazing down at Patton, whose eyes were huge and confused, flooded with false innocence. He was a better actor than Roman had thought. One more thing to add to the list.

“So that’s what it was. I was wondering.” Roman’s voice sounded tinny and muffled under the ringing in his ears. With that in mind, it was difficult for him to tell whether it was shaking. “How many house points are you getting for this little act of charity, then?”

Patton blinked. “I— what?”

“Sanders put you up to this,” he spat. Patton’s mouth twisted in horror. In realization. The heavy, ugly thing in Roman’s chest swelled, expanding to fill the gaps between his ribs, taking everything that would give and squeezing out breath entirely. “It’s generous of you, really. To help out. Did you think you could fix me? Everybody I know has already tried, okay, you can’t, I don’t need your help. I’m just  _ like this _ .”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Patton said, desperately. He was on his feet now too, hands held in front of him and wringing together, back and forth, back and forth. “I think you’re really great, Roman, really, and  _ smart _ , but you just have to—”

“ _ Try _ . Right.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Yeah, of course it wasn’t.” His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. “You just  _ meant _ to be all fake nice for a bit, get some extra credit, make yourself look good, and then turn around and make fun of me to all your little friends.”

Patton’s face shuttered. “Is that what you think of me, Roman?”

“I don’t know what I think of you,” he said honestly.

“W-well you know what I think?” said Patton. His lip was wobbling a little. “I think you’re  _ mean _ . I think you’re a scared, mean  _ child _ , and you only care about yourself and— and  _ fuck _ everybody else, even if they’re trying, even if they  _ care _ .”

“ _ I’m _ mean?” Roman repeated, “Shit, Patton, you’d think I was the one who lied and pretended that I wanted to be somebody’s friend, and then pulled the rug out from other them, just as they were starting to think—” His voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut before they could start doing anything embarrassing. He remembered, distantly, that they were in a classroom, at their school, which was very much occupied by other people.

“I wasn’t pretending!” Patton yelled, taking a step forward. His eyes were brimming with tears. “I would never do something like that! Not everybody is like you!”

“Thank god for that,” Roman snarled. “Since I’m so fucking  _ awful _ .” 

“I’m sorry I ever thought we could be friends,” Patton said. “I’m sorry that I thought you would ever li—” He cut himself off with a watery laugh, blinking hard. “Shit. Sometimes I really, really hate you.”

“I fucking hate you all the time,” snapped Roman, and in that moment, he meant it. Patton’s face contorted, with pain or rage or perhaps something else entirely— the moment passed too quickly for Roman to identify it— and he reached out and shoved Roman, right in the center of his chest.

Patton was taller and broader than Roman by a considerable, unfair amount, and if he had wanted to, he could have thrown him across the room. As it stood, it was barely a nudge. Roman took a step back, more startled than genuinely jostled, and his elbow collided with the burning hot wall of the cauldron. He jolted away from it, his foot catching on the edge of his chair that he had pushed aside earlier, and stumbled forward, into Patton, and Patton stumbled forward, into him, and both of them stumbled backwards, together, into the table.

And their half-finished Draught of Living Death, cauldron and all, toppled off the desk and crashed onto the floor with an eardrum-shattering CLANG. The thick liquid— which was now a horrible, incorrect, bogey-green hue— splattered across the hardwood, coating it and the legs of the three nearest desks in a coating of faintly steaming slime.

A long, long, silence followed.

Roman looked up. Everybody, of course, was staring at them. Virgil had his hand over his mouth. Janus wore an inscrutable expression, though his eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. Roman didn’t want to meet their eyes. He didn’t want to know what he would find there. He didn’t want to talk about this, later or ever, though he would have to.

Patton was standing very still, but trembling a little, gaze fixed on the tips of his sneakers. Looking at him proved to be an even worse decision.

Snape crossed the room, hands folded behind his back. The muted rustling of his robes as he walked sounded about as loud as a thunderclap. He came to a halt about a meter from Patton and Roman, who had each pointedly distanced themselves from the other and found a fascinating spot of floorboard to scrutinize.

Snape looked down his nose at them, as if they were a couple of troubling, bothersome pieces of lint on his jacket, sighed in disgust and resignation, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief, which he handed to Roman. It was only then that he realized he was crying.

“Pull yourself together, Mr. Jiang,” Snape said, then, “Let’s step into the hall, gentlemen.”

Roman followed, eager to escape the Potions classroom, which was now officially his least favorite place in Hogwarts and also the world. After a moment, so did Patton.

Snape shut the door behind them, blocking them off from the ogling and whispers of their classmates. He stared at the two of them for a moment: Patton, with his face bright red and shaking hands curled into fists at his sides, and Roman, who had realized there was no point trying to resist his true calling as a weak fucking baby and was now openly sobbing.

“Well,” he said, then stopped. “The two of you—” Another pause. “This is out of my paygrade.” He stabbed an accusing finger in their direction, instructed, “Do not move,” and strode down the hallway. 

Roman listened until the rhythmic clicks of his boots faded into the air, then sank down against the wall and put his head between his knees. It had been a while since he had a proper cry, and he was beyond caring if it made Patton uncomfortable. He hoped it did.

By the time the sobs faded into watery sniffles he felt clearer and cleaner, but it wasn’t as freeing as he had hoped. The detritus clogging his lungs was gone, replaced with a hollowness that cut to the bone. His brain still hadn’t caught up with everything that had happened. It didn’t feel real.

“Hey,” said Patton, quietly. There was a gentle thump that signified he had leaned against the wall next to Roman. “Look. I really didn’t mean—”

“Can you—” Roman’s voice blistered and he took a deep, shuddering, breath. “Sadeghi, can you not?” He heard Patton’s mouth snap shut. They stayed in silence, save for an incessant shuffling as Patton repetitively shifted from foot to foot. It was fucking annoying.

After what could have been an hour but probably wasn’t, the sound of hurrying footsteps caught Roman’s attention. He lifted his head to see Snape returning, now with Sanders in tow. 

“I’ll take care of it, Severus,” said Sanders, and the Potions professor nodded and returned to his classroom without so much as a backward glance.

Patton jerked away from the wall and adjusted his stance, shaking out his hands at his sides as if preparing for a performance. Not to be outdone, Roman scrambled to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and looked Sanders dead in the eye. 

“Sanders,” he said, with as much dignity as he could manage, which was not very much, considering that his tear ducts were still hard at work producing enough salt water to fill a small cauldron, “May I have a moment?”

His face softened. When he spoke, his voice was painfully gentle. “Of course.”

Roman whirled on his heel and all but ran down the hallway to the nearest bathroom, marching in with his head held high, because if he was going to be upset he might as well do it with flair, goddamnit. It was empty, except for a second-year Ravenclaw midway through washing his hands, who looked up at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. Roman generally liked to see shock on people’s faces when he walked into the room, but this kind was a lot less gratifying than usual.

He pointed to the door. “Get out.”

The boy blanched, gesturing to his sudsy palms.

“I said,  _ GET OUT! _ ” Roman roared.

He scrambled, dripping soap across the tile as he did so. As soon as the door shut behind him, Roman cast a quick “colloportus”, the lock sliding into place with an audible CLICK. He leaned against it and scrubbed at his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. He wondered how long he could stay here before Sanders and/or Patton came to drag him out by his hair.

He felt like pure shit. Loosening his tie made him feel a little better, throwing cold water in his face didn’t. He wet his hand and ran it through his hair a few times in an attempt to tame the disheveled mess that it had become, but the water just made it appear greasy. He was forcibly reminded of Snape, a comparison that made him choke out a broken laugh. Had he really sunk so low?

Roman wished he was a prettier crier. He wished he looked mournful and gorgeously, poetically tragic. He wished Patton would fall over his feet with regret at the sight of Roman’s beautiful, angelic features painted over with agony and apologize profusely and take his face in his hands and— and, well, nothing, because he just looked  _ gross _ . 

His cheeks were flushed a patchy crimson, nose rubbed pink and streaming with snot that glistened underneath the yellowy ceiling light, eyes bloodshot. Water and tears mingled together and dripped off the edge of his chin.

He lingered for a couple more minutes, pacing back and forth and readjusting his tie, but he couldn’t avoid the ensuing conversation forever, and this knowledge deprived him of any relaxation the respite would have otherwise brought.

When he stepped outside, Patton and Sanders were speaking quietly to one another, but when they heard him approaching they fell silent. Patton looked miserable, which was not as gratifying as Roman had hoped it would be.

“Well,” said Sanders hesitantly, once Roman had fallen back into his place a safe distance from Patton, arms folded over his chest and gaze fixed on an innocuous spot of wall, “Is everybody alright?”

“Never better,” Roman drawled.

Patton offered a jerky nod.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sanders sounded almost absurdly genuine. “Severus gave me a summary of what happened, but I would like to hear it from you as well.” They stood in awkward silence for an inordinate amount of time as Roman examined his fingernails (he was overdue for a manicure), Patton scuffed the sole of his trainers in invisible semicircles, and Sanders waited, hands on his hips, expectant.

“Just a bit of an argument,” Patton mumbled at last.

“Nothing fatal,” Roman added.

Sanders raised an eyebrow. After a few more seconds, he seemed to realize that that was the best he was going to get, and heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m going to be honest. I think highly of both of you as students and as people, and I am extremely disappointed in the behavior shown today. I expected better.”

“Not from me, you shouldn’t have,” said Roman before he could stop himself.

Patton shot him a look, which he ignored. Sarcasm was a perfectly valid coping mechanism, fuck you very much.

Sanders rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache coming on. “I have half a mind to suspend both of you from Quidditch—”

“No!” Roman and Patton cried together, suddenly at attention. Roman resolved that he would graciously cooperate with his newly reinstated nemesis if meant saving his Quidditch season. He had  _ not _ slaved over that essay rewrite only to get benched based off of a couple of petty insults.

“— If only because that would get your attention.”

It would also get Roman a lifelong grudge, one that would involve suing and/or hexing Sanders for emotional damages. 

“But I can tell I don’t have the full story, and that everything remains a bit…” He hesitated. “Fresh. Let’s put a raincheck on this discussion for today. Thirty points from both Slytherin and Hufflepuff, and detention on Thursday evening at six. We’ll take it from there.”

“Detention?” Patton squeaked. The apples of his cheeks had gone an angry, ruddy red. “Professor, I’m Head Boy, you can’t—”

Roman could not listen to a second more of this. “See you on Thursday, then,” he said crisply, and turned on his heel and began striding away as quickly as he could without breaking into an outright sprint. He knew his fast-walking must look faintly ridiculous, which he usually wouldn’t have stood for but sometimes, he felt, the ends justified the means, especially when the ends were ‘getting the hell out of this situation’.

Sanders said, “Roman, wait,” but he didn’t.

It was only when he turned the corner and their stares against his back vanished into thin air to strike uselessly against the far wall of the corridor that he realized, with a twisted sense of satisfaction, that he had for once gotten in the last word.


	4. Unfortunately, Still Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Catharsis" is one of my favorite words and I think it sums up this chapter pretty well. Sorry for the wait, loves. Hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: joking but specific threats about murder + violence, one (1) intrusive thought (the real thing not the character lmao)

“Fizzing whizbees.”

The Fat Lady gave him a suspicious look from where she was lounging on the stone steps of a historically inaccurate Greco-Roman palace. The turrets were, put simply, a crime. “Young man, are you lost?”

“N-no. I’m sorry. I lost my tie.” He schooled his features into his best kicked-puppy impression, throwing in a wobbly lip for extra emphasis. He would have clasped his hands under his chin, but his crossed arms were the only thing covering the Slytherin emblem on the left breast of his robes (the referenced tie was balled up in his pocket). 

“I can’t believe you don’t remember me,” he said forlornly, sniffling with the woeful nonchalance of a Muggle film star. “Nobody ever remembers me…”

“Oh, alright, don’t cry,” she said hurriedly, swinging the portrait aside before Roman could launch into a monologue about his mild-mannered Gryffindor alter ego’s sordid past, beginning with the untimely and horrific death of his goldfish, Marshmallow. 

He clambered through, cursing the waste of an excellent performance, and flashed a grin at the handful of Gryffindors lounging on the plush sofas by the fireplace, who blanched at the sight of him but didn’t comment— The younger years refraining out of fear (good, that was healthy), the older ones aware of his friendship with Virgil.

The Gryffindor common room was completely bereft of the aesthetic verve that the Slytherins had in spades, he decided with distaste. It looked like an eccentric old man’s decrepit parlor. The plush red sofas were lumpy and worn-in, people’s belongings were scattered everywhere, the colorful rugs clashed with one another, and the tapestries on the wall— the one redeeming feature— were all but covered up by a collection of truly ugly paintings.

Perhaps the clutter was part of the draw. Roman would never understand.

He stomped up the stairs to the sixth year boy’s dormitory, which was blessedly empty, though even more disorderly than the common room. He stumbled on a pillow on his way through the doorway, which he snatched up, angrily slammed it onto the nearest bed, and when that wasn’t satisfying enough, transfigured into a pile of slugs. 

He continued in this pattern on every four-poster except for Virgil’s, which he collapsed onto when he had run out of cushions to destroy. Crimson fabric, so thick and shiny it could have passed for velvet in the right light, cascaded above and around him like a protective waterfall. A sigh worked its way through his body. Virgil’s rumpled patchwork comforter was warm from the sun streaming through the window. 

He didn’t feel sad or even angry anymore, just... wrung out. There weren’t any thoughts left to think. All there was to do was to lie there with his hand tossed over his forehead like a knockoff Celestina Warbeck album cover and marinate in misery, which was no great shame, considering that that was one of Roman’s favorite hobbies. 

Not even a full five minutes of proper wallowing later, the door to the bedroom flew open with a BANG and in burst Janus and Virgil, looking pleased with themselves but also mutinous.

“Told you so,” Virgil said to Janus, shutting the door behind him and striding towards his bed. “Scoot,” he told Roman, and shoved his torso aside so that he could lean against one of the bedposts and stretch out his legs unobstructed.

Janus flounced over as well, draping himself over Roman and Virgil’s laps like an oversized, vaguely murderous cat.

“Fuck off, assholes,” said Roman, happy to see them also.

“I’m going to kill him,” Janus announced. “I’m going to kill him and create a funeral pyre and set his corpse out to sail on the Great Lake.”

“No, you’re not,” said Virgil tiredly. “If he disappeared, you would be the most obvious suspect.  _ I’ll _ kill him.”

“I just love how compassionate and comforting you two are,” Roman pointed out. “Truly your greatest strength.”

Virgil looked down at Roman, who still bore red-rimmed eyes and had his cheek mushed into Virgil’s pillow, and his face softened. In ordinary circumstances, he would have called him a dick and told him to get his grubby paws off his bedclothes, and the absence of this usual brash playfulness pinged something unnamable in the cavity of Roman’s chest.

“Mate, are you… alright?” asked Virgil awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Roman sighed. It wasn’t a lie, per se, once you considered this incident in the grand scheme of things, but Virgil and Janus didn’t seem to buy it, judging from the way they both frowned at him. “How much did you hear?”

“Only the bit after Patton started yelling,” Janus admitted. “About pretending or something. What the hell happened, anyway?”

Virgil swatted his arm. “Tactful.”

Roman did his best to explain the events of the argument, which seemed infinitely more ridiculous in retrospect. Everything had happened so fast he barely remembered what had happened when. He kept forgetting details or misordering things and having to go back and correct himself, but his Patton impression was, as ever, spot-on, so he chalked it up the tale as a success overall. 

As soon as he finished churning out a mangled description of events, Roman was overcome by a burst of shame. He felt so detached from that earlier version of himself. The aftertaste of the words that had left his mouth rested heavy and bitter against his tongue. 

The three of them sat in silence for a little while. 

Then Janus said, “He called you mean?”

“Well, I sort of am,” Roman pointed out.

“Not on purpose,” said Janus, fiercely, “Not really.”

The quiet dragged on. It was strange, but not uncomfortable. The last time they had one of these softer moments felt like eons ago. Before summer, even. They grew fewer and farther between the older they got, it seemed, as they grew more comfortable with one another, sharper, meaner. Maybe too much so, sometimes.

Roman felt a twinge of nostalgia for those messy early years, spent curled in corners of the library, whispering, gossiping, drying tears. They had been kids, with rounded edges and hands that found each other even in the dark.

They were still kids, when you got down to it. Roman, at least, had gotten handsomer, sadder, better-worse in a million ways that barely mattered except to his own scathing gaze in the bathroom mirror. Still, it was sobering and wonderful to discover that the fingers that lay on the bed beside him hadn’t moved an inch, even when he forgot how to reach out.

Something occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you still supposed to be in class?”

“Ah,” said Janus, his face brightening in that special, smug way that meant he had done something clever, “It was a terrible accident. I attempted to tie my shoelace, but mixed up the incantation and covered it in oozing pustules so disgusting I couldn’t bear to remove my shoe and display my shame to the rest of the class. I had to be rushed to the infirmary posthaste, and Virgil, being the kind and generous soul he is, offered to accompany me.”

“Sounds like quite a performance.” Roman suspected that Snape had not bought a single iota of it, but the greaseball either liked or hated Janus enough to let it slide.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Hardly. I had to kick him to get him to do a proper scream.”

“You don’t understand  _ nuance, _ ” Janus sniffed. “It was a perfect reenactment, I’ll have you know. Screaming would have been out of character.”

Roman squinted at him. “You screamed when he kicked you.”

“Do you hear something?” said Janus loudly. “Terrible drafts in here. Terrible. Anyway, Roman, back to your emotional dilemma.”

“Cheers,” said Roman. He folded his hands over his stomach and frowned

“Do you want to… talk about it?” asked Virgil. Roman admired his efforts at sympathy, stilted as they were. Any sort of honest, feelings conversation usually had him running away screaming (or, rather, sidling away with a “yeah, I’m out”) and here he was suffering through it for Roman’s sake. It was all very Gryffindor of him.

Roman thought about it. “I know this is probably odd to you, since I so obviously can’t stand him—” he began. Janus made a sound that Roman would think was an aborted laugh if he didn’t know better. “But still I… kind of… well. I never wanted him to hate  _ me _ .” 

Horrifyingly, that was proving to be the understatement of the century.

“I can’t believe Patton would do something like that,” Virgil mused. His brow was folded together into a tight angry line. “I really can’t.”

“Especially to  _ you _ ,” Janus added, whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Maybe it was a misunderstanding?” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” said Roman. He had overreacted worse about less, and of course there was a part of him that wanted to leap up and cling to the idea. But it didn’t sit right. This version of events made more sense. More sense than Patton genuinely  _ wanting _ to befriend Roman, in any case. Even on the off-chance that  _ had _ been true, it didn’t matter now. Patton didn’t want anything to do with Roman. He had made that abundantly clear.

Virgil’s jaw worked around on itself as he thought. “I think…” he began. “I think it might be good to talk to him about it.” Off the look Roman shot him, he hastily added, “Not right away. But it seems like you both said some things you maybe didn’t mean, and it seems worse to just… let it all stew forever, doesn’t it?”

“ _ I _ think you should let me do a little light maiming,” Janus drawled, rolling over onto his back to stare thoughtfully up at the canopy above. “Rough him up a bit. Nothing too traumatic. Gran showed me a very nasty variation on the bat bogey hex—”

“The one that was outlawed by Wizengamot in 1967?” Virgil raised an eyebrow at him.

Janus waved him off. “Details, details.” He sat up and brightened. “ _ Or _ we could push him down the stairs.”

“Nobody’s pushing anybody down the stairs,” said Roman.

“Since when did you become such a bore?” Janus groaned.

“Since his heart got broken,” Virgil said, petting Roman’s hair and only succeeding in making it look like it had been attacked by a small tornado.

“My heart’s not  _ broken _ .” Roman batted his hands away. “And anyway, Virge, I have detention with him on Thursday, so it’s not like I can avoid him, even if I wanted to.”

“Which you do,” Janus said.

Roman sighed. “Which I do.” 

“Detention?” Virgil made a face. “Oh, hell. Snape has it out for all of us, I swear.” 

“Not Snape,” Roman said blithely, “Sanders. Fucking bastard.”

“This is all his fault, really, when you think about it,” Janus pointed out. “We could push  _ him _ down the stairs.”

“Now there’s an idea.” Roman propped himself up on one elbow to grin at Janus. “How about the one on the fifth floor, with the vanishing steps?”

“I threw a textbook down there once,” Virgil mused, “Thought it would go through to the level below, but no. I think it leads straight to the void.”

“Perfect,” said Roman.

“No, no,” Janus derided, “Pick one where the steps  _ move _ , it’s so much more dynamic.”

“I hope you’re not speaking from experience.”

“Virgil, darling, you wound me. Do you think so little of me that—”

Roman sank back into his own thoughts as the familiar, comforting sound of bickering began to wash over him, rhythmic and playful like the lapping of waves against the seashore. The vestiges of autumn sunlight streaming through the blinds warmed his cheeks, and he plucked a loose string from Virgil’s quilt and turned it over and over in his fingers.

Thursday was going to be hell, of course, and it wasn’t as if that tight, wobbly fist in his gut had disappeared. Still, he watched bemusedly as Virgil lunged across the bed to drop a pillow on Janus’ face, who squawked in offense, underneath a halo of newly rumpled hair, and felt it loosen a bit. Everything that lay before him may have been uncertain, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t come out alright.

* * *

The Charms classroom was empty when Roman showed up, which was an affront on his character, since he had never been early in his life. He had arrived 6:04, which was close to the mark enough to be considered on time, but late enough to demonstrate his disregard for Sanders and his authority— or it would have been, if the asshole had deigned to show up.

Roman threw himself on one of the long, bleacher-like desks that lined the edges of the room, taking advantage of its length to lie down and with his feet dangling off the edge so that they didn’t damage the mahogany. 

A flash of white caught his eye, and he sat back up momentarily to crane his neck at what proved to be a huge stack of paper sitting at the heel of the expansive table, at the end closest to Sanders’ desk. Oh, god, were they going to have to copy lines? Roman would  _ die _ . He really would. He flopped dramatically back into his improvised chaise longue to bemoan his tragic existence.

A short enough time later that this had not begun to bore him, the heavy door swung open and Patton stumbled in, panting and frazzled, as if he had recently undertaken a sprint. “Sorry I’m late, Professor, I was dealing with a—” He halted, glancing around, before his eyes landed on Roman. “Oh. Uh. Hi.”

“Sanders isn’t here,” Roman told him, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling, though he couldn’t entirely blot Patton from his periphery. Attempting to catalogue Patton’s current feelings by the angle of his mouth would do more harm than good, he told himself firmly. Would you look at that, water damage.  _ Fascinating _ .

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Patton nodded and sat down on the opposite side of the classroom, fidgeting for a minute before rifling through his bag, pulling out a book, and settling in with it.

Roman couldn’t resist turning to see what he was reading. It was a textbook, naturally, and enormous. “Doing some light reading?” he said.

“Studying.” Patton flipped a page with a pointed, brusque  _ swish _ . He had his face pressed mere inches from the page, glaring as if trying to burn clean through it, which Roman thought was a perfectly reasonable response to  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ .

A frown worked its way onto Roman’s face. To be honest, he had been perfectly ready for them to pretend that Tuesday never happened and rib each other like normal, but it seemed as though that wouldn’t fly. Patton ruined  _ everything _ .

Roman swung himself up to sit on the edge of the desk, kicking his legs back and forth in the air like a petulant child in the St. Mungo’s waiting room. He was starting to get fidgety, and regretted not bringing schoolwork of his own. Had Sanders stood them up? Maybe this was all part of some diabolical plan.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Sanders swept through the door in a flurry of mauve velvet— a look which Roman could grudgingly admire. Every day he cursed the plain black robes that Hogwarts required students to wear.

“Ah, hello,” he chirped as he shut the door behind him, sounding altogether too friendly given that he was there to discipline them. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Something, uh, urgent has come up with the… the… well, nevermind. Secret professor business.”

Roman squinted at him, not buying that for a moment. Hufflepuffs were notoriously dreadful liars. A scheme was afoot, indeed. Did Sanders have enemies? Who was he trying to have murdered? Or… was he trying to escape murder?

“I’ll only be able to stick around for a minute, so follow me, please.” He strode over towards his desk, followed closely by Roman, eager to be relieved of his current boredom. Patton snapped his book shut, patted the cover lovingly, and scuttled over as well. 

Sanders shuffled around in one of his desk drawers for a while, creating a large discard pile of books, chocolate frog wrappers, and various tchotchkes as he dove deeper and deeper, and finally emerged, triumphant, with a small silver key attached to a loop of red ribbon. 

He shut the drawer with his hip and strode over to a large rectangular object, about Roman’s height, which stood at attention beside the desk and was covered by a sheet of blush pink twill. With a dramatic flourish, Sanders whipped the fabric off revealing… a filing cabinet. A well-kept, gleaming filing cabinet, but one nonetheless. 

Roman offered a smattering of sarcastic applause, which went ignored by all.

At a few flicks of Sanders’ wand, the key dug itself into the lock of the lowest drawer, which promptly shot out to full length. It extended far beyond the constraints of the slim silver box it allegedly resided within and, in the process of demonstrating this, almost whacked Patton clean off his feet.

The enormous stack of paper that Roman had noticed earlier floated over and hit him in the chest with a gentle WHUMP, forcing him to catch it.

“File these essays by last name, if you would be so kind. I’ll be back at eight!” Sanders sang— actually sang, to the tune of the Weird Sisters’ ‘This is The Night’ — and he disappeared once more. Roman stared at the door as it shut behind him, closing with a decisive click that echoed through the now-silent room.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” he said at last, releasing the stack of essays so that they fluttered across the floor in all directions. He expected to receive at least a disapproving glare for that, but Patton just looked at the scattered papers for a moment, sighed, and sat down, picking up the nearest essay to examine the name in the header. 

They worked in silence for a while. It was boring, but not difficult, and Roman was able to drift off into his own thoughts, running through plays and formations for Sunday’s match. In the past few days, he had thought of little else. Janus was always game to enable Roman in this vein, though Virgil was getting increasingly annoyed at the both of them and threatened to inform on their strategies to the Gryffindor team. 

During breakfast the previous morning, Roman had whipped out a quill to sketch out a diagram on his napkin to show Janus, and Virgil had yanked it away and announced that he was going to drown their whole starting lineup in the lake. 

Roman wasn’t  _ obsessed _ . What did Virgil know, anyway? His pathetic lack of fervor about Quidditch could surely be blamed on his deprived Muggle upbringing. Barbaric, on the whole. If there was anything in this godforsaken world that deserved histrionics, it was a perfectly executed wollongong shimmy. 

Alas, the universe was dedicated to destroying all sources of Roman’s joy. Just as he was approaching the best part of an excellent daydream, Patton spoke up.

“I think we should talk,” he said, with visible, near-Gryffindorian effort. 

Roman frowned at the peripheral suggestion of Patton’s face (which he was pointedly not looking right at), miffed at the interruption of his reverie. It was one of his favorite fantasies— though, admittedly, not one of the more realistic. The climax involved him punching Remy in the face mid-match and then receiving twenty points for nobly responding to the needs of the school as a whole.

“What about?” said Roman, trying to sound bored. He squinted at an essay written by somebody with particularly terrible handwriting whose surname was either “Abbott” or “Rabbit”, decided that any fifth-year who wrote like  _ that _ needn’t be given the benefit of doubt, and slid it into the R section.

At last Patton’s face twisted out of its former flat emotionlessness and into a frown. “You know what about. The… argument.”

“So?” Roman shrugged. “We argue all the time. It’s fun.”

“I didn’t think it was fun, on Tuesday,” said Patton. “Did you?”

Roman looked up from shoving yet another essay into the bulging S compartment (what the hell was with the surname density at this school?) and scowled at him. “No, I didn’t. And since you clearly can’t take a fucking hint, I don’t  _ want _ to talk about it.”

“Well, I do,” said Patton stubbornly. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but I’m going to talk.”

“You always do.”

“Aw, gee, isn’t that something, coming from—” Patton started, then stopped, and seemed to forcibly shake himself. There was a silence, stymied only by the dull shuffling of parchment, and then Patton spoke again. “I’m sorry.” His voice was much quieter now. “Really, Roman. I can be a huge fucking asshole sometimes.”

Roman let out an involuntary, strangled laugh at the dissonance of the swearing with Patton’s earnest voice. It was  _ deeply _ weird. “I’ve been saying that for years,” he said, in a last ditch attempt to jerk the metaphorical broomstick away from the Cliff Face of Emotional Vulnerability that Patton was doggedly steering them towards.

Patton smiled weakly. “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands twining together in his lap, filing forgotten. “Look,” he told the smudge of ink at the base of his left thumb, “Sanders did talk to me, but he didn’t  _ tell _ me to do anything, just said that he thought that we might be… good, together. As friends.”

He paused. Roman felt like that was an appropriate place to interject with something comfortingly snarky or at least offer an encouraging “mm-hmm”, but since he was in this conversation as an unwilling hostage, he stayed stoically silent in the hopes that it would contribute to Patton’s mal a l'aise. 

“I wasn’t using it like a direction,” he continued. “It was more like… an excuse.”

Roman heard this, thought about it, and still said nothing.

“I wasn’t pretending I wanted to be your friend.” Patton was starting to sound a little hysterical. “I think you’re great! I always have, honestly! And you’re funny and good at Quidditch and I like talking to you, or arguing, I guess, it is fun, and you… um …” he trailed off. 

Roman realized that a certain Euan Abercrombie’s essay was growing increasingly crumpled in his grip, and loosened his fists until they were lying tense and open on his thighs. “Cool,” he said. His life was really spiraling. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to kick himself over that disappointingly uncouth response.

Patton made a strangled noise. “Cool.  _ Cool _ . That’s a valid response, I respect and honor your contribution.” Roman put away a few more papers. He was becoming quite efficient at it, and the rhythm was strangely satisfying. Was  _ that _ why people did homework?

“Oh, Merlin,” said Patton hopelessly, “Please say something else. Conversations work better with at least two people, generally.”

Roman made the mistake of glancing his way, and was horrified to realize that Patton was beginning to look a little misty. His eyes loomed huge and sincere from within his perfect, angelic face, which was wrought with so much feeling that he just about shone. 

“I thought you said I didn't have to talk.”

“I changed my mind.” Patton did not seem at all bothered by his own nerve and hypocrisy. So-called Hufflepuff values were truly lost on him.

“Well,” said Roman reluctantly, and wished he had prepared cue cards. “It seems that I misunderstood. And should not have… jumped to a conclusion.” He frowned. “But why didn’t you just  _ tell _ me that in the first place?”

“I  _ tried _ ,” Patton said tartly.

“Forgive me for being a bit confused by this turnaround, considering that I’m, you know, a mean and selfish child.” It was maybe a little low of him to throw that back in Patton’s face, but he couldn’t help himself.

Patton looked wretched. “I don’t think you’re mean,” he said quietly. “I’ve never thought that. I was just angry.”

“Were you? I hadn’t noticed.” 

Instead of responding to that (hilarious and witty) comment, Patton continued to gaze at his hands as if he had just done something unspeakable such as say failing an exam. 

“I mean, the fact that you thought I was the kind of person who would do something like that... “ Patton’s voice was small and measured, as if he was reading from a prepared script.  _ Oh no _ , Roman thought. The Cliff Face of Emotional Vulnerability was approaching at tremendous speed. “That I made you believe that I would do something like that.”

Roman shifted uncomfortably. God, he really didn’t want to be having this conversation. His whole chest felt hot and tight. “I was mean to you too,” he said. 

“That’s true,” said Patton, not sounding cheered.

“I just didn’t think you were being very fair,” Roman blurted, before he could change his mind. “About the whole trying thing.”

Patton didn’t reply to that. Roman had been hoping, in a twisted sort of way, that he would jump in and tearfully accuse Roman of being a terrible person again, so they could fall into another screaming match, because at least that was  _ easy _ . And had a gratifying lack of forethought involved.

“I mean, you were a bit right,” he continued after a few seconds, because silence was awkward and Roman liked talking. “I don’t try very hard at Potions, and all that. But…” He hesitated. “I don’t see why I should, really.”

Patton opened his mouth, and then seemed to reconsider. He shut it. He opened it again. “... And why is that?” he asked.

“I know what I want to do with my life,” Roman said, “I don’t need a Charms N.E.W.T. to play Quidditch.”

“Well. That’s true.”

Roman looked down at the essay in his hands without seeing any of the words crawling across it. He felt a little shaky for no good reason, and remembered the way Patton had said,  _ I’m trying to understand _ , with his eyes all big and the line of mouth his all wobbly, like he really fucking meant it.

It might be nice to be understood. 

And it wasn’t as if Patton’s opinion of Roman mattered. It’s not like anything Roman could say could make it worse. 

“I did try,” Roman admitted, still looking at his hands. “All through, like, fucking fourth year! I tried so  _ fucking _ hard, harder than Janus or Virgil or anybody else, and guess what? I still fucking sucked! At everything! I, you know, I’m not smart, and it’s fine.

“I can’t focus in class. I can’t make myself. I can’t write papers. I can’t make myself care enough to focus on it. But it’s not like I don’t  _ want _ to.”

“You can focus on Quidditch,” Patton pointed out.

“Quidditch is  _ different _ ,” Roman said sullenly. 

They sat in silence and sorted essays for a bit as Patton mulled that over. After a minute, Roman reached for the stack of papers beside him and discovered that there were none left, fingers scraping against hardwood instead of parchment’s familiar smoothness.

He suddenly and absurdly panicked, as if because there was nothing left to do with his hands the entire world would come crashing down around him. Fuck fuck fuck. Roman wished fervently for a time turner so that he rewind about, oh, five minutes or so, and stun his dumbass past self’s fucking stupid mouth shut.

He contemplated shutting the drawer, but the barrier it provided between him and Patton was somehow comforting. The empty air that hung between them was stale and fragile, like a suddenly drained balloon feebly gasping in the breeze.

Patton had leaned back on his hands and was staring up at the ceiling, chewing his lip. The fragile yellow light flickering from the glowing baubles suspended just below the ceiling danced off the column of his neck, highlighting the sloping length of his nose and the round edge of his cheek.

The sight was almost offensive. Almost painful. Roman had grown up with an Auror mum who was sharp and lovely and said, “Look both ways” and “Smile, baby,” and so he did, or tried anyway, and when he didn’t manage it he at least felt properly guilty about it.

How dare Patton sit there, looking so pretty and blue and so  _ exposed _ , with a whole world of thought and emotion sitting right there on his face, laid out for  _ anybody _ to see, to snatch, to hurt, like it was nothing. 

Somebody could slash a cutting curse across that tense, illuminated line stringing together his jaw and his shoulder and bam, that would be it. It was a terrible, unprecedented thought. It came to Roman in the way terrible, unprecedented thoughts often did.

Then again, Roman had just spilled a whole host of terrible, unprecedented thoughts at Patton’s feet. He sighed, just to have something to do.

“I’m really sorry,” Patton said, after a little while. “I  _ was _ being unfair. Like, very much so.”

“It’s whatever,” Roman said. 

“It’s not whatever,” said Patton. “I’m sorry. I guess I can be a bit, oh, you know. The mayor of Munchkinland.”

Roman blinked. “The mayor of  _ what _ ?”

“Ah, it’s a Muggle thing. Nevermind,” Patton said quickly.

“Munchkinland. What a funny name.” Roman considered. “Is it in America?”

Patton made a slightly strangled sound. Roman continued to stare at him.

“No,” said Patton at last. “Not in America. It’s, um, very, very far away. Hardly anyone has been. But there’s a book about it!”

“Fascinating,” Roman said. “It could be unplottable.”

“Maybe, Patton said, and then he started laughing. Roman truly had no fucking clue what was going on, but he laughed too because this whole situation was absurd enough anyway, fucking  _ Munchkinland _ aside.

“I still shouldn’t have lashed out at you,” Patton said quietly, once he calmed down. “I’m sorry.” He kept saying that. “It wasn’t any of my business and it was  _ mean _ , besides, and I didn’t know but that doesn’t matter.”

“The fact that I thought what I did was a bit more about me than you,” he admitted. “I would be upset if someone thought that of me. Or, well, if I was  _ you _ and they did.”

“It’s not… it’s not easy for me, by the way. I didn’t know it seemed that way.”

Roman sighed. “Maybe only to me.”

“I just…” Patton bit his lip. His mouth was sloping downward, slack and sad, but somehow resigned. “I try  _ so hard _ to be a good person.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Of  _ course _ you’re a good person. You’re the softest little puffball I’ve ever had the misfortune of coming across.”

“Ohh.” Patton said, hand over his mouth. He was looking extra-quavery again. “You— you really think so?”

“Uh.” Roman blinked at him and realized belatedly that Patton was a  _ Hufflepuff _ , which meant that was a life-affirming compliment rather than a subtle slight.  _ Janus,  _ for example, took accusations of altruism as an affront on his character. Janus was a sensible, wonderful man. “Ye-e-es?”

This was evidently the right answer, because Patton let out a watery squeak and dove over the filing cabinet to pull him into a deeply awkward hug. The angle was excruciating. Roman was being impaled by the metallic edge of the drawer.

He returned the embrace on instinct, reaching up to pat Patton’s back, which proved to be a mistake because Patton sniffled loudly and tightened his grip like a niffler clinging to a glinting, stolen pocket watch. 

Roman really hoped Patton wouldn’t cry, because otherwise, this was an upsettingly excellent hug, and Roman had a tendency to cry when other people cried. Virgil said he was sensitive and it was admirable that he didn’t feel emasculated by it. Janus said Roman couldn’t bear not being the center of attention 24/7 and had subconsciously developed a coping mechanism.

“Alright, we can’t have you killing me,” Roman announced, once serious impalement grew imminent. “It would be terribly selfish of you to deprive the country of my face, and a war crime, besides.”

Patton drew back, giggling a little, seemingly against his will. He wasn’t crying, thank Merlin, but he still looked a bit unsteady. “I feel like there’s something more I should say,” he said. “I’m sorry you think you aren’t smart, Roman. It’s not true.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “No need to get soppy, Pat. I more than make up for any academic failures through sheer power of bone structure.”

Patton nodded seriously. “You  _ do _ have good bone structure.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve won prizes.”

“Have you really?”

“The Slytherins do a yearly awards ceremony,” Roman explained. It was a relatively recent development for which Janus was almost entirely responsible. A minor lapse in judgement from Virgil, an explanation of the Oscars, and thus, it had begun. Virgil was also eligible, as an official Honorary Morally Reprehensible Slimeball. He had won Least Fun three years running.

“I’ll show you my trophy sometime.” Roman grinned wickedly at Patton. “You’ll have to come to my dorm, though.”

Patton raised his eyebrows at him. “Well, aren’t you a charmer.” He leaned over and flicked the tip of Roman’s nose, smiling a silly little half-smile with his tongue trapped between his teeth. “At least take me out to dinner first.”

“Sounds like the start to a bad joke.” He snorted. “Or a uniquely terrible evening. What the hell would we even talk about?”

“School?” Patton suggested.

“Quidditch?”

“Internal corruption at the Ministry?”

“Personal insecurities?”

Patton’s eyes doubled in size. “Roman, if you  _ do _ ever want to, you know, have a  _ talk _ , I’m here for you—”

“That won’t happen,” Roman assured him. “Ever again. No more talking about emotions. It’s illegal from now on.” He paused. “Until I win the Quidditch Cup. Then I’ll write sonnets.”

Patton smiled and fluttered his eyelashes a little. “For me?”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Roman espoused. “Thou art dry and stifling.”

“Do you insult all your friends?” Patton asked, propping his elbows on the edge of the filing cabinet and his chin in his hand. “Or am I just that special?”

Roman’s heart did an impressive little pirouette at the word ‘friend’. He stood up, in order to put some much-needed distance between their faces, and stomped his foot, well aware that it made him look like an oversized child. 

“It’s my way of—” He huffed. “I’m trying to apologize, you insufferable fucking tosser.”

Patton stared at him, and then the corner of his mouth twitched, then receded. It did it again. And suddenly, he was beaming with full force, so wide and bright and overwhelming that Roman fought the urge to shield his eyes.

“Okay,” he said, looking unbearably happy. “Apology accepted.”

Roman pouted. “I didn’t even say it properly yet.” He was not about to be out-mannered by a bloody Hufflepuff. He still had  _ honor _ .

“Alright.” Patton pushed himself off the floor and walked over to Roman, stopping a few paces in front of him. He was still smiling like  _ that _ . Roman wondered if you could roast marshmallows in the sheer glow of his aura. “Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry,” said Roman solemnly. “For being a dick to you. And saying mean things about you to you, and behind your back, and to anybody who would listen. And for beating you in Quidditch all the time.”

“I’m sorry too,” Patton told him. “For all of that. And for accusing you of casting a confundus on me when I actually just had the sun in my eyes.”

Roman gasped. “I knew it! You dirty cheat!”

“Dishonesty isn’t against the rules,” said Patton, looking like he was trying very hard not to look pleased with himself.

“But it is a dick move.” Roman raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. Truce?” 

Patton stared at Roman’s outstretched hand for a moment, then laughed. “You’re such a Slytherin,” he said, and bypassed the handshake for another hug, which— holy fuck— was  _ so _ much better when Roman wasn’t having his heart gouged out by a vicious filing cabinet.

It was almost offensive. Patton  _ must _ have actively practised his technique. There was no natural way a human being could be so good at hugging. Frankly, Roman had never considered hugging as a skill one could be particularly proficient at. It was just a nice thing.

But no. Oh no.  _ This _ was like being lovingly smothered by an outsized golden retriever. Roman patted Patton’s shoulder again, if only in appreciation. Now that they were friends, or whatever, he was fully prepared to interrogate Patton about his workout routine as soon as he got the chance. Mid-hug might have been pushing it. 

“We’re still going to destroy you on Sunday,” Patton murmured, his breath ghosting over the shell of Roman’s ear. 

“I look forward to vanquishing you, your team, and your spirit,” he responded, and since Patton couldn’t see his face anyway, he let himself smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Tysm for reading! :D I'm having a BLAST with this one, so I hope you like it as much as I do. Next part should be out soon! If you enjoyed, consider leaving a comment or reblogging on [tumblr](https://unring-this-bell.tumblr.com/post/620829182118772736/theres-a-word-for-that-part-15) <3


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